


Sing Me To Sleep

by MyChemicalRachel



Series: Sing Me To Sleep (Series) [1]
Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Depression, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 50,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyChemicalRachel/pseuds/MyChemicalRachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a failed suicide attempt, Frank Iero is placed into an induced coma to prevent any further self harm. While he's asleep, he's visited by what he believes is an angel who sings to him. When Frank finally awakens, it becomes his obsession to find who the voice belongs to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I didn't leave a note. I didn't leave a reason or a motive. Let them make sense of it on their own. Let them come up with their own understanding. I was done. 

I feel the cool blade against my skin for the last time, staining the silver a deep red color. Among the old scars and scabbing wounds, I make a few more fresh slits. I feel tears building in my eyes, but refuse to let them come over. If I'm dying today, I'm going out with a bang, and that doesn't include crying. 

I stand up and look at myself in the bathroom mirror. I fix my smeared eyeliner and brush my fingers through my black hair, straightening the short blonde hair on the sides. I catch my own hazel eyes in the reflection and part of me wants to stop. Do I really want to die? I shouldn't do this. I should just go downstairs, get some coffee, and forget about the whole thing. But there was a darkness within my eyes, too. Something that was screaming at me to end it all. 

I grab the sharpie next to the sink and lean forward, tainting the mirrored reflection with the big black words. 

**_xo Frank_ **

I pull down the sleeves of my black Misfits shirt to cover the marks and take a deep breath. _This is it_ , I think. This is the day that Frank Iero dies.


	2. Chapter 2

On a normal day, I would keep my head down, walking as fast as my feet could carry me through the halls of the high school. I would bite my lip ring nervously and try to avoid being stuffed into a locker by making myself as invisible as possible. Today was different, though. Today, I felt almost happy, knowing that by two'o'clock, everything would be over.

I make my way through the double doors at the front of the school, smiling. The bottle weighs heavy in my jacket pocket, like an anchor that's holding me down. Like, without it, I might just float away. I go to my near-empty locker, just to see it one last time. There are a few journals, ripped and torn from wear, covered in various lyrics and drawings, and a half eaten bag of Skittles. That's it.

I grab the bag of Skittles and make my way toward first period. If I'm dying today, I might as well get a good last meal, right? I pop a few of the little round candies into my mouth as I take my usual seat in Chemistry. The bell rings and a few students shuffle tardily into the room, followed shortly by the teacher. Mr. Carson shuts the door behind him and turns to face the class, clasping his hands together. His eyes scan over each student in turn before landing on me. "Frank!" He exclaims and I sigh internally. Of course, he would choose today to single me out. Normally, I would avert my gaze and pretend like I don't exist, but now, I just smile in return. He slowly saunters to the back of the class toward me. "Mr. Iero," He says in a voice that is completely prepared for disappointment. "Do you, by chance, have last night's assignment completed for me?"

I purse my lips a little, thinking. "Nope," I say honestly. 

His mouth forms into an O and he sighs heavily. "Frank," He says, false concern filling his voice. He reaches my table at this point and lowers his tone, talking just loud enough for the few surrounding tables to hear his words. "You're very close to failing this class, I'm sure you're aware. Why are you so unmotivated? You'll never make anything of yourself this way."

"I'll make a legend," I say with a smirk. The kid who killed himself in front of the whole school? Yeah, that would be a legend that would live on forever. 

Mr. Carson shakes his head, his face wrinkling even more than usual with a frown. "Suit yourself, if what failure is what you choose." He walks away and class resumes. 

I toss another Skittle into my mouth, which bounces off of my lip ring and rolls across the table. The kid at the other end, I don't remember his name, picks it up. He twirls the little green piece in between his thumb and forefinger, the black nail polish contrasting with the candy. "Gimme," I say greedily and he tosses it back. I open my mouth in time for the candy to land on my tongue and grin at the boy, winking. "Thanks."

The boy looks down at his journal quickly, black hair falling forward to cover his face. I turn back to my own notebook, opening to a blank piece of paper, and begin writing. 

•••

The football pep rally started at two PM precisely. At 1:55, everyone would be shuffling into the gymnasium. Freshman would be clutching onto each other for dear life, not willing to lose their friends in the mass. Sophomores would be standing up on the bleachers, screaming at each other over the noise. Juniors, all of them except for me, would be sighing, overwhelmed with boredom and irritation as the other students crowded in around them. And the Seniors would be arguing with underclassmen about where to sit. I simply watched them all from the doorway before slipping into the bathroom around the corner.

I stand at the sink, watching my reflection yet again. This time, there is no doubt in my head of what I am about to do as I pull the bottle of antidepressants from my pocket and spill the pills across the ledge. I put a single capsule into my mouth and swallow. Then another. Twenty-three capsules later, I stagger into the gymnasium, taking a seat near the front. 

I feel fine at first, but when the cheerleaders come onto the floor, my head starts getting fuzzy. I begin losing feeling in my body and soon after feel myself begin to shake. There's a scream and I fall to the floor, seizing violently. I can't control my own body and I feel helpless as everyone moves at once, some crowding around me while others try to get as far away as possible. Others only watch as my body convulses on the hard gym floor. The medication makes my stomach twist, clenching in painful spasms. My eyesight goes next. Everything gets blurry and faded, like I can't focus on them, instead looking past them all. 

The sound of chaos fills my ears, while a bitter taste settles on my tongue. I wait patiently for it all to be over, for everything to go black and finally disappear.


	3. Chapter 3

Bright lights dance around me, illuminating the vast empty space that surrounds me. I try to focus on just one orb, but they're all so brilliant. Red and blue and yellow spheres, spinning and flying, making my body feel almost weightless. Gradually, each orb evaporates, dissolving into the encompassing darkness. A ball of worry knots in my stomach, fear settling in as I realize what's happening. The lights disappear one by one, their radiance fading until only the shadows remain. 

I open my mouth and my scream shatters the silence in my mind, but nothing else happens. I expect something climactic to occur, someone to jump out and drag me away or to begin coughing up blood and fall to my knees, but no such thing takes effect. When my screams finally cease, I'm left with nothing but the silence that engulfs me. 

I feel terror welling up inside me, threatening to bubble over, another scream building in the back of my throat. I don't know where I am and I don't know how I got here. I don't remember anything after waking up this morning. I rack my brain for anything more, but nothing comes to me. And then, slowly, lights seem to flicker on above me, vivid and blinding.

I'm standing in an vacant hallway, long and narrow. The walls are a plain gray color, almost radiating under the fluorescent glow. The tiled floor stretches out beneath my feet, like a yellow brick road that I'm supposed to follow. But I stay put for a long moment, too scared to move. Abandoned gurneys and wheelchairs scatter the corridor and a few dripping IV bags hang from mobile stands, feeding medicine to a non-existent host. 

I take a hesitant step forward. Just as I do, a gaunt figure emerges from a doorway on the right side of the hallway a few yards ahead of me. I freeze. It's a boy, this much is obvious. Short white hair contrasts with his black uniformed body. His apparel, a black marching band jacket with various white adornments across the chest and sleeves, reminds me vaguely of a parade I watched when I was younger. His face is unidentifiable under the black and white paint depicting a skeletal face across his sharp features. His brilliant green eyes meet my own and he smirks, winking at me, before disappearing through a doorway across the hall. 

"Wait!" I call, finally finding my voice and pushing myself forward after him. I race past the gurneys and other hospital-affiliated objects and reach the right room, throwing the door open and chasing in after him though I have no idea what lies on the other side. 

I stop as soon as I'm through the doorway, frozen in place yet again. Instead of finding a hospital room like I had assumed I would, I am faced with a field. A beaming sun shines down on me and a grass covered field, out-skirted with trees. Nothing else. No skeleton-faced boy. Nothing. 

I think that maybe I chose the wrong door and turn back around only to find the door that I had just come through was nowhere to be found. Behind me lay nothing more than a continuation of the field before me. I spin around again.

The sun feels too hot on my back, burning my skin as panic overtakes my mind. What the hell is going on? But just as the thought of the uncomfortable sun enters my mind, the light seems to fade. Not just setting into dusk, but disappearing completely, allowing darkness to swallow me again. 

I reach a hand out before me, hoping to feel the grainy bark of a tree or something, but instead all I grasp is dead air. 

Wait a second...  _dead_. It all comes back to me in a nauseating rush. I tried to kill myself. I remember going to school and taking the pills that I hoped would end my life. But then where was I now? Was this Heaven? Hell? Somewhere in between?

I try to force myself to calm down, but the knot in my stomach is still there, growing every second until it's suddenly overwhelming me with pain. I clutch my stomach, doubling over and dropping to my knees. I can't see anything in the dark but in the distance, I hear something. At first, it's nothing more than whispers of wind through the trees, but after a moment I can make out different voices. 

"...overdose," I hear a man's voice say. "We had to pump his stomach to retrieve the medication, but he should be fine."

"Thank God." This is the voice of a woman. I can't place it right away, but it sounds familiar.

"Mrs. Iero," The first voice says and then it occurs to me. The woman. It was my mother. "Your son tried to end his own life. We even found self harm wounds on his body." There's a pause. Why are they talking about me like I wasn't even here? I'm right here! "He's in and out of consciousness right now," Oh. So I'm unconscious? That's kind of cool... "But we want your permission to induce a coma."

"What?" My mother exclaims. "Why?!"

"Frank tried to kill himself," The man says again, and I'm beginning to realize this is probably a doctor. "It's not permanent. Just a temporary induced comatose state to prevent him from further injuring himself."

Great, I realize. Not only am I  _not_  dead, but they're going to try to stop me from attempting suicide again.

There's a silence and for a moment, I think that the voices have faded off, just as they appeared, but after a pause, I imagine my mother nodding her head in approval because I hear the doctor say, "Great. I'll have the nurses prepare the thiopental right away."

The voices do fade away this time and I'm left in the darkness, terrified and disappointed. Why did they want to save me? I wasn't worth it. I just needed it to be over. Just as the thought entered my head, I heard another voice, this one much closer.

"You scared me, Frank," The male voice says. It sounds faintly familiar, but I can't place it. "I thought you were really gone." There's a pressure on my hand and I wiggle it a little, thinking it may be a spider or something equally as horrifying. After a second, I realize it's not me that's feeling that at all. It's my body. Someone is holding my hand.


	4. Chapter 4

At first, everything is black. A vast, endless darkness that consumed everything in it's path, shadowing me in nothing. I was terrified. The doctor had said they would put me into a comatose state, but I didn't know what that meant. Would the darkness just envelope me until I woke up? Or would it be one long never ending dream? I try to find peace in the knowledge that I'm inside my own mind. I keep telling myself that nothing is going to jump out and drag me into some unknown pit where it will torture me for the rest of eternity. 

And then something occurred to me; This is  _my_  mind. I can make it whatever the hell I want it to be.

I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, focusing my mind on a parade. I remember my father took me to a parade when I was younger, maybe five or six. That was before he started drinking. When he started drinking...

No. I force myself to stop the train of thought there. I didn't want my dad manifesting in front of me. But even as I try to push the introspection away, I feel it becoming stronger. The atmosphere changes around me but I don't want to open my eyes, already knowing what I'll see.

"I'm talking to you, boy." I hear the all too familiar voice and cringe against their words. "Don't make me repeat myself." My hands begin shaking. This isn't new. This is nothing more than a memory. I repeat that to myself.  _This is just a memory_. But the fear that swells up inside of me now is all too real. "I said, did you break the glass?"

"Please, calm down John." That's my mother's pleading voice, tears building up in her chest. She knows what's about to come, too. 

"Yes, Dad." I force myself to speak, the words fresh in my mind, though they haven't been spoken aloud for four years. I make my eyes open, seeing the familiar room around me. The beige curtains hang open in the window, letting the last amount of daylight to peek into the kitchen. My father looms over me, anger etched into his features. My mom waits near the stove, a shattered glass on the ground at her feet. This is the exact same image I remember seeing when I was thirteen. I swallow hard and my eyes meet those of my father. "I broke the glass."

"Dammit, Frank!" He yells at me. He throws his beer bottle at the wall near my mother and she jumps, letting out a small shriek, though the bottle misses her and scatters in pieces across the room.

"I'm sorry." My voice is small, almost silent. 

"Sorry?" My father spins on me. I can smell the alcohol, heavy in his breath as he glares at me. "Sorry doesn't cut it, now does it? Doesn't fix the glass. Right?" I shake my head a little, but my father's anger only builds. "But I guess sorry makes it all better. We can just break everything," He pauses to pick up one of the wooden chairs, sitting at the table until now, and throws it at the wall, missing and causing a crack to shoot up the window instead. "And then say sorry, and it will be better." He spins back to me. I'm trembling with fear. I try to think of some other memory, anything to get me the hell out of here, but the fear is making it hard to think straight. My father leans close into me, his words dripping with pure hatred as he watches me. "Well how about I break that fucking face of yours?" He says. "And then say sorry." He raises his hand to hit me but this time, I do something I should have done that night, four years ago. I run.

I spin on my heels and sprint toward the back door. I throw it open, hearing my father's screamed curses behind me, but I don't stop. I race straight toward the trees behind our house. The sun is setting and twilight is taking over. The cold air hits my skin and I cringe away from it, quickening my pace. I just need to keep running.

When the shaking sobs finally overtake me, I find myself tripping on branches, tumbling toward the hard ground. I let myself fall, curling into a ball. The ground is cool against my skin and the October air chills my face where tears stain my cheeks. My father's voice has disappeared, leaving me alone in the silence. But off in the distance, I hear something new. After a moment, I realize it's another voice. But it's not angry. There's no hatred. Instead, it's soothing. I focus on the serenity it creates within me and actually feel myself relax.

The voice gets closer, almost as if it's right in my ear, and I can make out some words now.

_We hold in our hearts the sword and the faith_  
 _Swelled up from the rain clouds, move like a wraith_  
 _Well after all, we'll lie another day_  
 _And through it all, we'll find some other way_

I let my eyes close as the voice sings, tranquility coming over me. After only a second, though, I feel the atmosphere change again and sit up, waiting for the scene around me to change. The trees still cluster around me, the twilight now faded into night, a bright moon shining overhead. But everything is otherwise the same. But then movement to my right makes me shift my gaze and I see the boy from before. He looks the same as when I saw him in the hospital; white hair, marching band uniform, skeleton face paint. He lays back on the dirt, his elbows propped up under him, his face turned toward the sky.

"Who are you?" I ask, fear coming over me once again.

He looks over at me, his eyes glimmering into the moonlight, and smiles. "Let me sing you to sleep." He says. I swallow hard. My heart is beating against my chest, panic threatening to push itself into my mind, but  _this is my mind_. This person can't hurt me here. So I watch him as he opens his mouth, letting his voice fill the air around me with the same song I heard before. The same voice. I let my eyes go closed again, feeling exhaustion overwhelm me.

_He's an angel_ , I think. He's  _my_  angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Desert Song by My Chemical Romance.  
> All lyrics copyright to them.


	5. Chapter 5

My eyelids feel heavy, falling down to shield my vision though I don't need sight to tell me I'm no longer in the woods. The smell of tree bark and dirt has faded. Instead, when I breathe in, my lungs are filled with the intoxicating fumes of alcohol, overpowering all of my other senses. The scent burns my nose, stronger than when the heavy weight of it was on my father's breath. No, this is different. This is pure alcohol, Vodka and Bacardi, maybe even Everclear. Nothing that the beer on my father's taste buds even compares to. 

The strong liquid seems to settle on my tongue, stinging and burning and warm as it slides down my throat. The feeling seems to electrify in my mouth and I cough against the blazing pleasure in my chest. It takes me only a moment before I realize I'm in another memory, this only somewhat more pleasant than the last. 

I force my eyes open, already aware of what I will see. I'm on a putrid yellow couch, the rough fabric scratching against my bare arm. Next to me is a girl, I don't remember her name. Anna, maybe? An open bottle of Dubra is balanced between us. The memory seems so clear in my mind, even if I was shitfaced when the event originally took place. 

The girl leans over to me, her words slurred and her face slack of emotion, an effect of the alcohol, though she tries her best to put on a sexy front. Her hand rests on my thigh and she shoves her tongue in my ear. "How about we go upstairs?" She asks seductively. I find myself nodding and swallow hard.

This was a party. It was a few years ago, I was fifteen. It was shortly after my father had died. My mother became depressed and I became socially deprived. So I started going out, to parties mostly. I told myself at the time that I just wanted friends, I wanted someone to be there when my mother and father weren't, but I know now I was lying to myself. I didn't want friends. I wanted alcohol. I spent an entire year drowning in the liquor, covering up every real emotion I was feeling. I wanted to forget everything my father put me through. I wanted to forget that my mother was becoming nothing. She was fading fast into the scenery. She barely talked to me by this point and I turned to the alcohol to cover it all up. 

Of course, this wasn't just any party. This was my last party. 

The girl takes my hand in hers and unsteadily leads me toward the staircase. My vision isn't as blurry this time around as we pass laughing groups and grinding couples. I want to tell my feet to stop. This isn't exactly a memory I want to live through again. Why can't I relive the good memories? But thinking that now, I realize there aren't many good memories at all. 

When we reach the top of the stairs, me having to steady the girl a few times, she pulls me down the hallway. We pass three closed doors, probably all already occupied, before reaching an open one. She pushes me inside and closes the door behind her, making the room dark. It takes only a second for my eyes to adjust enough to make out the shadowed form of the bed, my back meeting the mattress only a moment later. The girl smiles and her mouth finds mine in a sloppy kiss. The alcohol taints the action, making it feel awkward and fake, but good all the same. Her hands clumsily pull at my jacket, trying to get it off in a hurry, but failing due to the intoxicated haze surrounding us both.

I remember my thoughts clearly as they raced through my mind. Being only fifteen, I was a virgin. This was the closest I'd ever been to sex and I was sure that we were going to go all the way. That was, until the door swung open.

"Anna?" The angry voice shocks me, though I knew this time that it was coming. The girl jumps off me, her shirt now hanging loosely from her small frame, her lipstick smeared, the surprise sobering her up a little bit. 

At the door stood Todd Stryker. Anna's boyfriend, though I didn't know that at the time. He pulls the girl toward the door before turning his furious gaze on me. I feel more alert to his voice, the venomous words seeming even more enraged and alive inside this memory. That doesn't stop me from making one of the biggest mistakes of my life. Unlike the recollection of the night with my father, I didn't want to run from this memory. I knew exactly what would happen and what this one night would change, but I wanted to relive this one moment again and again. 

Todd's face warps into a snarl and he comes toward me. Somehow, he seems even more gorgeous than what I remember him being. This was the first time I had ever really seen a guy in that light, as being gorgeous, and it terrified me. I blamed it on the alcohol at first, but as time carried on, I knew that wasn't true. 

So when Todd leaned close to me, spitting angry words into my face, I did again what I remember doing when I was fifteen. I kissed him.

My lips were weak from the intoxication but powerful with passion, even as the ball of fear and anxiety twisted once again in my stomach. I wanted to feel his mouth on mine, just the small taste of his tongue as he shoved me away. The taste lingers, even when Todd's sober fist connects with my under-the-influence jaw.

This was a special memory, indeed. It was a night of many firsts, and lasts as well. This was my first kiss with a guy. And  _damn_  I had liked it, even if I got punched right after. This was when I realized that I liked guys, in an intimate manor. This was, however, the end of my social life. After this, I became the freak. The faggot. The kid that, not only tried to screw Todd Stryker's girlfriend, but made a move on Todd himself, too. This was the last party I got invited to. This was the start of my sobriety. But this was also the night I first picked up the razor. My thoughts jumbled and messy, my lip busted, my tongue tainted with the kiss, I had picked up the razor instead of another bottle. 

The memory doesn't end there, though. When I stumble out of the dark room, down the stairs into the seemingly blinding living room, lit only dully with overhead lights and bare bulbs of cracked lamps, I see him. The angel. 

He stands in the corner of the room, surrounded by people who don't seem to acknowledge his existence. Maybe he's like me. He's in the memory, but not really. He's reliving it right alongside me, but he's on the outside. I'm feeling every little detail of the thoughts while he's merely watching. 

He smiles when our eyes meet. He's leaning against the wall casually, arms crossed loosely in front of his chest, though the face paint and uniform remain intact. I freeze, my mind splitting. I want to go to him. I want to hear his voice again, the beautiful words falling from his graceful lips. I long to reach out to him but in the same instant, my stomach twists. He's not a part of the memory, so why is he here? Who is he? The delicate features, barely seen under the paint, lures me, seeming vaguely familiar but utterly foreign at the same time. Against my better judgment, I feel myself being pulled toward him. I make my way through the crowd, never once letting his eyes leave mine for fear that he'll disappear. 

I stop when I near him. It seems like the music, pounding in my eardrums until now, seems to fade away, along with every other person aside from the two of us. Like, suddenly we're the last two people there. Everyone else disappears the moment I open my mouth. "Who are you?" My voice sounds shaky to my own ears and I will myself to calm down.  _This is my mind. He can't hurt me here._  But even as I repeat the words to myself, I don't feel any less anxious. 

He smiles at me, a small gesture that seems to consume the room with it's radiating glow. He's beautiful. But he doesn't answer.

I swallow hard and press on. "Are you an angel?"

A laugh escapes him, an angelic sound that reverberates in my ears. He shakes his head. "No. I'm not an angel."

"Then who are you?" I ask when he says nothing more. His eyes search mine and he sees something in them, changing his composure. His face seems to change before me, his humor dispersing, replaced with sadness almost. "Are you a memory?"

He shakes his head again. "Not exactly."

"Then what are you?" I demand, getting angry at his vague answers. 

He doesn't respond again, verbally at least. Instead, he takes a step closer to me. I feel the heat coming from his body, so close to mine. He's taller by a few inches so I have to tilt my neck upwards to stare at him. Our eyes meet again and I feel my heart nearly stop in my chest. His eyes are a hazel color, flecked with green and gold, and they catch a light, reflecting in them a brilliant glimmer as well as something more I can't name. The knot in my stomach, tight until now, seems to relax, letting loose a bevy of butterflies within my stomach, fluttering nervously as his gaze seems to penetrate me. His scrutiny seems to go deeper than my eyes, making me feel vulnerable and exposed, but I make no move to look away or cover up. Instead, I merely wait as he lifts his hand, the back grazing my cheek. Sparks ignite within me, excitement and hope exploding inside me at the simple touch. 

That's it, I realize. That's what I saw in his eyes. I saw the glimmer of light, yes, but also a slight glimpse of hope.

As quick as the thought occurs to me, the boy is gone. I raise my own hand to where his only a moment ago was, feeling fingers brush the skin lightly, but I can't tell who's they are. Whether mine or the boys or some unknown outside force, the tingling sensation I feel tickle across my flesh burns inside my stomach and chest. I realize someone is touching me again, someone out there. Outside of my mind. 

That's when I hear the voice again, ethereal words filling my head in a song so glorious that I feel chills shake me to the bone. 

_Blow a kiss at the methane skies_  
 _See the rust through your playground eyes_  
 _We're all in love tonight_  
 _Leave a dream where the fallout lies_  
 _Watch it grow where the tear stain dries_  
 _To keep you safe tonight_

I feel the drained sense overtake me once again, the fatigue growing quickly as I'm pressed into sleep. But as the voice surrounds me, enveloping me and almost making me feel safe, I don't feel scared anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: SCARECROW by My Chemical Romance.  
> All lyrics copyright to them.


	6. Chapter 6

I'm jolted back into reality-- or my twisted, comatose-induced state of reality-- by a sharp pain that seems to shoot through my body. It starts as nothing more than a meager discomfort at the base of my wrist before the excruciating pain explodes in my arm, traveling in a burning line towards the rest of my body. My eyes shoot open. Though I don't bother to focus on my surroundings, I take notice that it's dark. My eyes are instead on the flaring blue light that illuminates from my veins, moving at an agonizingly slow pace though the pain is now everywhere. I feel terror well up inside of me as my eyes follow the strange glow and almost piss myself when I hear someone's voice.

"It will be over soon," I hear the soft voice and my head snaps up to lock eyes with the skeleton boy. 

"What the hell is going on?" I demand, the panic I feel revealed in my voice. 

The white haired boy steps forward and his gaze drops to my arm to where the blue light travels through my veins, sending a white hot pain shooting throughout me. He reaches out his hand, his fingers brushing my forearm and sending chills across my flesh. His touch seems to ease the pain, if only slightly, leaving a cooling sensation behind. I swallow hard, about to speak again, just before another jolt of pain shoots through me. This time, I let out a cry and fall to my knees, my body seeming suddenly too weak to hold myself anymore. My eyes clench closed and my breathing becomes shallow. 

"Make it stop," I plead to no one in particular though the boy follows me. He drops to his knees as well and his fingers trail down my arm, finding my hand and intertwining our fingers.

"Look at me, Frank," He says in a quiet voice.

I don't want to. I just want the pain to go away. I don't have the time or patience to play mind games with this beautiful stranger, angel or not. But the ceasing pain where his hand touches mine makes me look up. He's so close to me, his eyes mere inches from mine as his gaze brushes over my features. I feel exposed again under his scrutiny but not like I'm vulnerable or scared, not like I felt when I saw him at the party. This time, the burning color in his eyes is like a warm embrace, comforting and sheltering. I suddenly feel safe and everything else disappears. The pain recedes, becoming a dull ache as it dissipates, dissolving into my my veins and fading altogether. 

My breathing slowly evens out, returning to normal as I watch the boy. I'm profoundly aware of his hand still wrapped around mine, fingers entwined. It feels so  _real_. The corner of his lip raises on one side in a small smile but he makes no move to move away from me, for which I'm immensely grateful. There's a fear in me that if he moves the pain will return, but that's a minute worry right now. Right this second, I want nothing more than the body heat I feel almost radiating off of him, the assuring grasp he has on my hand. I feel so weak, I don't know if I could handle the feeling of lacking those things. I'm scared of once again feeling the emptiness that might overtake me when he moves away. 

"What was that?" I ask, finally finding my voice. 

"Your medication," The boy says, tilting his head to one side, studying me. "And nutrients. You're being fed intravenously while you're unconscious."

"Will it happen again?" I wonder.

The boy nods and I feel the panic begin to build again. I didn't want it to happen again. What if the boy wasn't there next time? What if it was worse? What if...

I feel the boys hand squeeze mine gently and my body immediately relaxes, serenity taking the place of horror. "I'll be right here when you wake up, Frank," He says. "I've always been right here." He wraps an arm around my neck, leading me to the hard dirt floor. I allow myself to be pulled down with him as he lays down beside me. His hand is still in mine, pressed together between our bodies in a shaky grip, while the other brushes through my hair, pushing some of the tangled black behind my ear. I let my eyes drift closed, focusing on nothing more than his voice as he starts to sing.

_These are the nights and the lights that we fade in_   
_These are the words but the words aren’t coming out_   
_They burn ‘cause they are hard to say_   
_For every failing sun, there’s a morning after_   
_Though I’m empty when you go_   
_I just wanted you to know_

I force my eyes open, needing to see this beautiful boy, but when my eyelids flutter open, I am alone. There's no boy in front of me, no figure whatsoever visible in the darkness that surrounds me. But there's also no lack of warmth, no receding comfort though I now feel completely alone. There's also no denying the pressure that remains against my fingers, the voice that fills the air around me. I know someone is here with me, maybe not in my mind, but with the safety of my body. So I close my eyes, letting the voice rush through me, filling me with the warmth I so dearly desire, and again fall into a placid sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: The World Is Ugly by My Chemical Romance.  
> All lyrics copyright to them


	7. Chapter 7

When I finally drift back into unconscious consciousness, the atmosphere around me seems empty, like my mind has become hollow. I can't bring myself to open my eyes for a few long moments. I know that when I do, I'll be alone. Again. The skeleton boy will be gone and I'll be left to my own solitary devices. The darkness that seems to blanket my mind and, right now, my mind's manifestation of my body in a suffocating pressure. I feel cold and bare against the engulfing shadows, like a dark soul that encompasses my own, swallowing it whole. 

When I finally bring my eyes open, I see that I was right; It's dark again. Blackness covers everything, blinding me to even my own pale skin as I stretch a hand out in front of me. But I can tell I'm alone. There's no memory or recollection that buries me in retrospection. Just the simple emptiness and I suddenly feel lost in the depths that surround me. I want him back. I want to see the skeleton boy so much that my chest aches with the loss. 

It's a strange feeling to me. For so long, I had felt empty. But this... This here was not emptiness though it seemed much like it was. The emptiness I had felt for so long made me numb, but this, what I feel right now, is different from that calloused emotion. I was in pain. I was sad. I was alone and, in all honesty, I was scared. I longed to see the skeleton boy, for if no other reason than to feel the warmth of his body so close to mine. I wanted to hear his voice again. I wanted to know I wasn't alone. 

But this is all in my head. My body, out there in the real world where I lay still in slumber, I know I will always be alone. That's why I tried to kill myself. The emptiness, the constant numbness that pricked at my mind, was overbearing. I just wanted it all to end. But here in my head, I realized, I could make it anything I wanted. I didn't have to be alone, even if it wasn't real.

I close my eyes tightly, attempting to clear my mind. I bite my lip, crossing my legs at the ankle as I try to manifest what I want in my own head. 

"It won't work." The voice jerks me out of my concentration and I nearly jump out of my skin. My eyes land on a figure a few feet ahead of me, a small amount of light now illuminating the scene around me, which is still empty aside from him and myself. "It won't work, " He repeats, taking only a small step closer. "You're trying too hard." I wait, not saying anything. I'm not really sure which words to use. I only stare blankly at him. "Relax," He mumbles softly, his voice filling my ears as a tranquil feeling rushes over me. He smiles. "Good." He moves toward me again, walking past my shoulder and turning so he faces my back. I feel his hands settle on my hips, his lips seeming so close to my ear as he breathes out. "This is your mind, Frank," He tells me. "You can make it whatever you want."

I inhale a slow breath, turning my head to the side to look at him. His face is next to mine, an inch away at most, and it seems as if my lungs have stopped working. My heart lurches into my throat, stopping there as he turns his alluring gaze on me. His eyes seem to shimmer in the dark, like they themselves are glowing, emitting a light of their own. I'm extensively aware of the warmth on my sides where his hands touch me. His pink lips lift up in a small smile, revealing small white teeth. His eyes seem to search mine in a way I've never experienced before. It makes my heart accelerate and seemingly stop all at once. It's like he sees me. He sees past the darkness I cover myself in, past the depression and the pain, seeing something within me that makes his smile grow wider. 

I want to kiss him. I want to bring him closer to me, wrapping my arms around the strange angel and never let him go. But I know I can't because, even with the butterflies that seem to be seizing in my stomach, I know that this isn't real. This boy, the sensation that builds in me when he touches me or when he sings. None of it is real. I know that, in only a matter of time, I will wake up and all of this will be gone. I'll once again be alone. 

Part of me wants to enjoy this sensation while it lasts. This is my mind, I can do whatever the hell I want. If I want to give myself to him, right here on the blackened floor, I can. It will feel real enough, even if I have to wake up afterwards. But another part of me knows that I can't do this. I can't give in and feel everything when I know that it will all disappear, once again leaving me with nothing. I can't bare the sensation of becoming numb once again after feeling so full of passion. My body, my mind, my heart, every fiber in my being knows that I cannot kiss him. 

So I simply close my eyes, letting my head roll back, resting on his shoulder. I feel his arms wrap around my waist, pulling me close. It almost seems like he's holding me up. I feel like I might fall over if he were to let go and worry fills me. I will myself to open my eyes, knowing that if I close them, he could disappear. I turn my neck again though he looks straight ahead.

"You were trying to make a parade," He mumbles, feeling my gaze on him. I nod. I remember the day so clearly that my father took me to see the parade. The skeleton boy looks down at me. "Would you like me to help?"

I think it over for a second before responding. I don't answer his question, instead asking one of my own. "Who are you?"

He looks away again though his hands still remain against me. "I am a manifestation," He says. 

I narrow my eyes. "I created you? In my head?"

"Kind of." The boys eyes seem to crinkle up as well as he thinks. "I am your anchor."

I shake my head slightly, not understanding. "What does that mean?"

"I am a mixture of memory and formation," He explains. I watch his mouth as he speaks, the words soft and placid, but I don't relax. Relaxation could make me fall asleep again and I don't want that right now. Not when I'm finally getting answer. So I focus on the way his jaw moves when he forms the words, the concentration in his eyes as they bore straight ahead. He looks down at me. His gaze is impenetrable, desperate and dominant at the same time, and I can't look away. "Why can't you just wake up, Frank?" He says, dejection filling his voice, pleading and full of misery. "Wake up and fucking see that I'm right here."

His hands leave my sides as he quickly spins me around to face him. His eyes are still searching mine, his hands now placed in my own, squeezing tightly. When he speaks again, his voice seems deflated and empty. The skeleton boy sighs sadly. "God, I need you, Frank."

I expect to hear the singing again and as I stare at the boy in front of me, his mouth opens. But no sound comes out. There is no melody, no music, no singing. Instead, faintly in the distance, I hear a soft cry. The boy before me has tears in his eyes but no sound escapes him. No. The sound is out there, in the real world. 

My heart seems to ache as the realization hits me. Someone out there is crying for me. 


	8. Chapter 8

I focus all of my energy on the empty space that surrounds me in all directions. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly and try again. 

_Parade_.  _The big floats, decorated with blue and red and white ribbons that hung loosely from the frame. The marching band, dressed in dark and elegant uniforms, moving swift and graceful through the streets. The leader, a tall lanky man, his uniform seeming even more exquisite than the rest. The way he carried himself, his head held high in radiating confidence. His hair was an electrifying white, untouched of all other color that might have seemed tainting to the pure alabaster. His face was old, wrinkles folding across his skin, seeming to absorb the face paint that spread across his features in a white and black skeletal disguise, but the happiness shone through like a light._

This was not the skeleton boy, but I imagined the old man was my basis for the illusion. Like the angel said, he was a mixture of formation and memory. Replaying his words in my head a million times, I tried to make sense of what they meant. 

Memory; The skeleton boy was someone I knew, probably seeing him enough to bring him forth in subconscious manifestation. Who, I was not sure. The parade was one of my favorite memories, taking place long before my father became an alcoholic, before I made a move on Todd. Back when everything around me seemed so innocent. 

Formation; I assumed this meant I had taken some memories and somehow mashed them together, forming something completely new. The skeleton boy.

"You have to relax," The voice jerks me out of my thoughts and my eyes snap open. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, feeling my body become less tense. "You're trying too hard."

The skeleton boy emerges from the shadows, stepping toward me and becoming illuminated by an unseen light. "You're too focused," He continues. "When you become too focused, your mind begins to wander."

I feel his hands move around my own, placid warmth seeming to slowly course through my body at the touch. His eyes meet mine at only a few inches distance. "You're paying too much attention to small details, which is making you distracted." He lets go of my hand and takes a small step back. "Close your eyes," He commands. I don't want to at first, afraid he'll disappear, but, after a hesitation, abide. "Good. Keep your breathing even." His voice moves as he speaks and I imagine him walking closer to me but I don't feel him anywhere. I'm about to open my eyes to make sure he's still with me just when he speaks again. His voice is right next to my ear. "What do you want to see, Frank?" He asks me. His breath tickles my ear, making the skin tingle. "Tell me what you want."

I want to turn around and kiss him. I want to feel his hands once again on my body, whether on my own hands or my hips. I hate even the narrow distance between us. But I know what he means and I remember what he said;  _keep your breathing even_. Just imagining his hands on me is making my breaths become shallow. I inhale slowly before letting the air out. "A parade," I say, finally finding the words. 

"Good," He says again and I hear the slight smile in his voice. I feel his hands on my hips once more, sighing in content. "Open your eyes."

I force my body to obey, peeling my eyelids up to the astonishing sight. The whole scene seems to unfold before me. The street stretches out in both directions, the toes of my shoes even with the asphalt's edge. There are crowds of people, their faces seeming blurred as the memory is fogged. They gather around the moving floats, some cheering while others merely watch in awe. Music fills my ears, my heart beating in time with the drum as the marching band comes into view. I look to my left, straining to see the skeletal leader. 

"I can't see!" The voice leads my eyes away from the big balloons in the distance, coming closer with each passing second, nearly blocking out the sun, to a small kid. "Daddy, I can't see it!"

"You're right up front, son." The older man next to the child laughs. My heart seems to freeze in my chest, refusing to move as I watch the pair before me. 

"Daddy!" The kid whines again. He tugs on the man's dark denim pants, stomping his foot.

"Alright, alright," The man laughs. "Come on, Frank." The man picks up the child, heaving him onto his shoulders for a better view. 

"That's me," I realize. The pair in front of me; That is five year old me with my father. The day that he took me to see the parade. I feel paralyzed, unable to move my gaze away from the smaller, younger version of myself. God, I look so happy. I bouce excitedly on my father's shoulders. Even my father looks happy, a grin spread across his face as his hands lock my legs in place. 

I shake my head, turning around to face the skeleton boy. "I don't get it," I say. "Why is it like this?"

"Like what, Frank?" He asks. "I thought this is what you wanted."

"It's different," I explain. "Before, it was like I was re-living it all. Now... it's like I'm watching my life play on a screen. Why did it change?" 

"Because this is a conscious memory," He says softly. He tilts his head to one side, watching me curiously. "You know exactly what you wanted to see. This is it."

I feel my eyebrows crease, even more confused by his answer. "That doesn't make sense," I say. 

He turns me gently, moving me so I'm once again facing the street. The marching band is right in front of us now and my eyes land on the leader. His smile, broad and ecstatic as he brings his legs up, reveals nothing more than pure happiness. I feel the angel's arms as they wrap around my waist, his chin resting upon my shoulder. "Why did you choose this memory, Frank?" He asks me. 

I shrug, feeling his head carried as an extra weight with my movement. "It was when I was happy," I admit. "Before my dad died, before he started beating me, before he started drinking. It was before the depression and the parties and everything."

With my answer comes a realization. This time, I didn't need to relive anything. I didn't care about the parade in front of me. I didn't need to see the marching band or the leader. I needed to see myself happy. I needed to see what my dad and I once were. 

"Help me again," I demand suddenly, pulling away from the skeleton boy, yearning to feel his touch but knowing that I needed to see his face. "Help me see another memory."

The skeleton boy looks upset, saddened by my order. For the first time, he actually looks nervous, reluctant to do something. "I don't know..." He mumbles and I can tell he knows just what memory I want to see again.

"Help me," I repeat. This time, I take a small step forward, finding the courage within myself to take his hands in mine. "Please."

The skeleton boy sighs, looking defeated. "Okay," He finally agrees.

I smile. The electricity that seems to be pulled through my veins at this second is more than the effect of his touch. It's fear and excitement and anxiety balled into one massive emotion, one drug that seems to be running through my body at full speed, making my nerves feel wired.

The skeleton boy was going to help me remember the night my father died. 


	9. Chapter 9

Part of me is screaming at me that this is a bad idea. There's a pygmy sized section of my brain, probably the logical part, that is telling me to imagine rainbows and unicorns, not the night my father died. It's beating against the inside of my skull, begging me to choose a different memory. That part of my brain has apparently manifested in the form of the skeleton boy.

He watches me with pleading eyes, his flawless face twisted into a worried expression. "You don't have to do this, Frank," He tells me. 

I take a deep breath, letting my eyes close. Of course I have to do this. I need to see my father's death replayed again right before my eyes. Not like I'm reliving it this time. I merely want to watch. 

My father was a sick son of a bitch. At first, it was just yelling. My parents would fight a lot, and I thought it was normal. Parents fought, right? There were nights that my father would come home from work, complaining about a lack of sales in the shop he worked at, about how pay cuts were bound to effect us all. He was right, in a way. When I was ten, he lost his job due to pay cuts. He came home even angrier than usual, wasted and screaming as he staggered in the back door.

"This isn't the memory you wanted," I hear the angel say. I open my eyes to look at him, but as I gaze around, I realize he's right. I'm in the kitchen of my house again, standing near the doorway that leads from the kitchen to the den, the skeleton boy to my right. 

This isn't the night my father died. This memory, though, has plenty other significance. 

Ten year old me sits at the table, a smile on his face as he watches his mother,  _my_  mother, speak excitedly, both ignoring the food that's placed before them. "She's talking about a trip," I say softly. I have my arms wrapped around myself as I watch the younger me grin. I glance over at the skeleton boy. He watches only me, paying no mind to the memory that surrounds us. I laugh lightly. "She told me that it was supposed to be a surprise, but her and my dad were taking me to Disneyland."

The skeleton boy takes a small step closer, his body heat touching me though he doesn't. "What happened?" He asks, prompting me.

I shake my head. "We never went," I state. I shift my gaze back to the memory, letting the flashback explain itself as to why the trip never ensued. 

The back door swings open, hitting against the wall with a disturbing thud. My father stumbles into the room, his face slack of any emotion. Looking back now, I realize he's shitfaced. But back then, I didn't know or care. "Daddy!" Younger Frank looks up, elation lighting up his face. 

My father ignores him and narrows his eyes at my mother. "You started dinner without me?" He demands. His voice isn't as slurred as I imagine it should be from the intoxication, instead laced with annoyance.

My mother looks down. "It was getting late," She stammers, her words seeming nervous as she realizes that my father's sobriety is far from present. "I wanted Frankie to get some food before bed."

"Daddy!" Younger Frank exclaims again. My father's furious gaze turns to the smaller boy. I bite my lip, not wanting to watch what I know is about to happen. "Mommy told me about Disneyland! Is it true they have the people from Toy Story there?"

My father turns his anger back to my mother, amplifying at the child's words. "You told the kid?" He demands. My mother looks down again, opening her mouth to answer but not having the chance before he slams his fist down on the table, sliding it across the hard surface and sending a plate and glass crashing to the floor. "Dammit, Linda!" He yells and even I jump.

I feel the skeleton boy move closer, his arm wrapping around my own, his fingers sliding between mine. I squeeze his hand, feeling the comfort and security wash over me. I wasn't in danger. I was safe. I was only watching. I tried reminding myself that, but seeing this as it took place right before my eyes, I also felt hopeless. This was  _me_ , seven years ago. And I couldn't even help myself. 

"What's the point of a fucking secret if you can't keep your mouth shut?" My father demands. 

My mother looks terrified, stunned and frozen, watching my dad. "John, please," She begs. "Not in front of Frank."

"Why not?" He yells. "He has to know now that Disneyland isn't going to happen."

"What?" Young Frank asks, confusion warping his innocent features.

My father simply laughs, maniacal, drunken laughter. My mother looks worried now, too. "What happened, John?" She asks. She stands up and moves toward my father, who's back is now to us. I bite my lip, waiting, fighting against everything inside of me to turn away.  _This is a memory_.

My father spins around as my mother's hand touches his shoulder. He bats her arm away, fury building up and showing clear in his eyes. But I don't focus on them. Instead, I watch myself. Younger Frank stares, wide eyed and panicked, as my father begins screaming about losing his job. I want to go to him, to tell him it will all be okay, but I can't. Not because I feel frozen, or because I know he won't hear me, but because I know that telling him it will be okay would be a lie.

In three years, this innocent kid will kill his own father. In five, he'll become an outcast. A freak. In seven years, he will try to end his own life.

How can I possibly tell him that everything will be okay. This night and some before were the start of it all, but it's not the end. I know that, and soon enough, he will, too. 

So I watch tears build in his eyes as my father raises his arm and hits my mother for the first time. "Daddy, stop!" The smaller boy shrieks, jumping out of his chair. A fork clatters to the ground, the shrill noise it creates echoing in my ears and calling attention the my younger self. 

My father spins on his heels, his anger making him into a person that I no longer recognize. This is the night my father died, not physically, but mentally. He became someone I didn't know any longer. He was someone new, a monster. 

"What did you say?" The man demands. 

Young Frank is crying now, tears streaking his face and making his words choked. "Please, don't hit Mommy."

I have to admit, I was courageous for a ten year old. Most kids would run and hide, but I took everything my father had to give. He laughs, that insane, evil laughter again. "Are you gonna stop me?" 

"Please, John, leave the kid alone," My mom is crying now, too. Her lip is busted, blood gathering at the edge, already beginning to dry and crack.

"No, he wants to be a man about it." My dad smiles, the simple action seeming malicious. At the time, I was so naive. I didn't think my own father would hurt me. He was the man I had always looked up to, he was my  _dad_. But at that moment, he was someone completely new. 

He did hit me. Hard. His open palm collided with a sickening noise against younger Frank's cheek. I flinched, cringing into the skeleton boy. I cling to his hand and arm like an anchor. Without him, I probably would have ran away again, leaving this memory where it belonged in the back of my demented mind. 

"John, please!" My mother cries out. She reaches out an open hand, as if to grab me away, but makes no further move to save me from the abuse.

"Shut up!" My father growls, casting nothing more than a glance back at my mom. She sobs some more, but abides, leaving the child to fend more himself. Leaving ten year old  _me_  to defend myself. "Why are you crying?" He demands. "I thought you wanted to be a man. And...  _Men. Don't. Cry_." He emphasizes each of his final words with another blow. 

Tears seep from young Frank's eyes, but he doesn't cry out in pain. He doesn't beg for mercy. He simply allows his father to continue using him as a punching bag. He winds up sprawled out on the floor, bruises already forming on his swollen eyes, his lip busted open and a trail of blood escaping from one nostril. I hear my mothers shaking wails, becoming mere background noise. I focus only on my younger self. 

Young Frank looks up from the floor, his bloodshot eyes full of tears and desperation, yet somehow he looks defiant. The impact of my father's blows caused something to snap inside of me at the moment; I was done being a kid. I was done being innocent. Instead, I was growing up. I was beginning to realize that I was alone, as my mother merely watched me be abused. I was just broken. Little did I know at that time, but I was far from shattered. No, this night was just a small crack in myself. But that small crack was poked and prodded and soon enough it became a hole, leaving me empty and hollow.

My father grimaced at the small boy on the floor. "You're pathetic," He mumbled, the toe of his boot connecting with young Frank's stomach. He muttered something else about going to bed and then left the room, his head held high with the pride of beating the shit out of his only child. 

Young Frank scrambled to his feet. He raced to my mother's side, dropping to his knees by where she was curled around herself on the kitchen floor. He knees were pulled to her chest, arms wrapping around them in a hug, her face cloaked by her falling hair. "Mom," Younger Frank says, placing a gentle hand on her back.

"I'm so sorry," She weeps, not making a move to comfort her son or to make sure he's alright, only worrying about herself. 

"It's okay, Mom," Frank says. "It's all okay now."

I turn away from the memory, well aware of the tears now forming in my own eyes, as I face the skeleton boy. I don't want to be here anymore, I want to go back to the parade, to the woods, to the darkness. Anywhere but here.

As the thought enters my mind, I feel the atmosphere changing, the objects around me fading into black nothing. Light shines down on us, just me and this angel, but everything else seems vacant and empty. 

I wipe a hand across my eyes, tears collecting on the sleeve of my shirt and being pulled away, my other hand still wrapped around the skeleton boy's, not willing to let him go.

"I want to see the night he died," I say. "Help me."

The skeleton boy nods slightly. "I will," He promises. He brings his free hand up, brushing his fingertips across my jaw. "But not yet. Right now; Sleep."

I want to argue. I want to tell him that I need to see my father die once more. But I can't refuse as he pulls me closer to him, wrapping his whole body around mine. Security overwhelms me and I close my eyes, letting his voice fill my ears. 

_Doesn’t matter what you’re thinking_  
all the odds are on me now, I just never seem to open up.  
Here I am with the shades drawn in.   
I am pulling myself in and I want an end to this.  
So look away and I’ll be okay. If you don’t see… 

Warmth seems to rush over me in a wave, the words sending chills through my body as the familiar feeling of a hand around my own sends me into sleep, once again feeling safe inside my own head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Add It Up by The Plastic Revolution.  
> All lyrics copyright to them.


	10. Chapter 10

My eyes seem to glow from the inside. Even with the lids shut tightly, I see the surrounding luster of florescent lights. Their brilliance surrounds me, the rays of light seeming too harsh to my covered eyes. The scent of cleaning supplies fills my lungs in a nauseating wave. The two senses seem to hit me in an overwhelming rush and my head throbs. It feels like my brain is beating against my skull in an attempt to escape. I roll over, feeling the smooth rustle of sheets beneath me. 

_Wait... Sheets?_

Though the blinding beams of the overhead lights seem to pierce right through my eyes, I force my lids open. It hurts and my vision is blurry, like I haven't opened my eyes in awhile. Still, I peer around the room, taking in all of my surroundings.

I'm in a hospital bed, tubes and needles violating me in different places, not hurting but feeling numb instead. The four surrounding walls seem too close to be natural, their beige colored floral design seeming to press into me and making me claustrophobic. A monitor beeps evenly to my right, letting me know I'm alive. Well, that's a good sign, at least. 

I push the sheet away, the one that was covering my body, and realize that I'm clothed in a hospital gown. Is this a memory? I rack my brain for what memory I might be reliving, but come up with nothing. Even with my father's persistent abuse, there weren't many trips to the hospital. There was one time, when I was twelve and my dad pushed me down the basement stairs. It wasn't the fall that hurt, but the concrete destination that awaited me at the bottom. My father had lied easily about how "those damn rugs have been tripping all of us" and he would make sure it wouldn't happen again. Of course, child services were contacted, just to be safe, but when my mother assured them that everything at home was peachy fucking keen, they let it slide. My father was right about one thing, though; He never let it happen again. Me going to the ER, that is. The abuse continued but, even if I was a bloody stump afterwards, the emergency room was never seen again. 

I focus back on the sterile room around me. If this isn't a memory, what is it? 

I turn on the bed, swinging my feet over the edge and letting them drop to the cool tile ground. The skin of my toes tingles at the sensation, but I ignore it. I let my slim fingers wrap around the metal pole of the mobile IV, pulling it along with me as I make my way across the room. 

Worry pits in my stomach, making it twist uncomfortably. Why am I worried? I'm safe here. I'm safe inside my own head.

My feet drag across the marbled tile, the only sound coming from the rolling IV. When I reach the door, I push it open slightly, peering out into the hallway. The corridor is empty, lights flickering above my head, like the way they do in a horror movie. Right before the guy with the pick axe kills everyone.

I bite my lip, trying to push the thoughts away once again. No way in hell did I want some psychotic killer manifesting in front of me. But as I step into the hall, I realize that might not be a problem.

The lights become a normal, blinding glow. The hallway loses the essence that makes it seem so scary and the smell of cleaning supplies assaults my nose again.

"No," The word feels weird on my tongue, falling from my lips in a clumsy fashion, like my mouth hasn't been used for quite some time. I find myself talking in my head instead.  _No, no, no! This can not be happening... Not yet. I'm not--_

"Frank?" I feel a hand on my shoulder and nearly jump out of my skin. I turn quickly and I come face to face with a nice looking woman. She wears brightly colored scrubs, so vibrant compared to the dull color of the walls. She smiles warmly and my heart sinks. "I see you're awake."

_Awake..._

I fight against the overwhelming ache that forces it's way into my chest and allow my previously interrupted thought to continue.

_I'm not ready to wake up._


	11. Chapter 11

I have the sudden urge to turn away from the seemingly nice woman and run away. I'm not sure where I would go, and I would undoubtedly be slowed down by the various prodding needles and IV pole, but I just want to leave. I want to leave the smell of too harsh cleaning supplies and the suffocating dull white walls and just run. I want to go back to my head. I want to go back to the skeleton boy. 

But I can't move. My legs feel almost numb beneath me, barely even holding up my own weight. The nurse's hand tightens on my shoulder, almost painfully squeezing. I wince, but she simply cocks her head to one side, the smile never leaving her soft features. "What's wrong, Frank?" She asks, concern lacing her voice, though it looks almost like amusement in her clear blue eyes.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly feeling very dry as my stomach seems to drop, churning and making me feel nauseous. My head is throbbing, making me feel dizzy, as blue dots dance across my vision. I wipe the back of my hand roughly across my eyes, wanting the little bursts of color go away. When I pull it away, I see a moist streak across my pale skin. Shit, now I'm crying. That's great. 

The nurse lowers her head a little to get a better glimpse at me though I avoid her gaze. I don't want this complete stranger to see my crying. I don't know if I can deal with that. I just want to be alone. I want to be back inside my own thoughts, lost again in the darkness, surrounded by the angel's voice. "Frank, are you alright? Does something hurt?"

I shake my head, short twitchy movements. My eyes search the vacant hall absently. I take in the sight of the abandoned gurneys, the smooth walls that seem too white. It makes me want to scream. 

"Do you want me to get you some morphine?" The nurse continues curiously. "Maybe I can get enough in you to finish the job this time. Since you failed with your own attempt."

My eyes immediately flash to the nurse's, going wide. My heart nearly stops with her words and panic flashes through me.  _Did she just offer to give me an overdose?_

I shake my head once and, though my breathing quickens, force myself to calm down. She simply smiles easily. No way. I must have misheard her. No way did she just offer to kill me. Though my heartbeat seems to accelerate, my mind grasps the thought and refuses to let go. I think of how easy it would be to just have a few doses injected into my already dripping IV bag. Enough to kill me quickly, painlessly, while I slept. That's what I wanted. I wanted to die. And this could be my way out. But she couldn't do that for me. She was a nurse, not an executioner. She would lose her job, maybe even go to jail. She wouldn't offer that. I simply misheard her...

I swallow again, forcing my words past the lump in my throat. "Is my mom here?" I wonder. If they were waking me up from my coma, of course my mom would be here when I woke up, right? She wouldn't just leave me here alone. She would want to be there for me when I finally came to. 

The nurse laughs lightly once, her pleasant smile quickly becoming terrifying. "Oh no. She hasn't come to see you. Not even once."

I don't want to believe her. I know my own mother; She wouldn't just leave me here alone, no matter how much she hated me, and I know she did. She blamed me for my father's death, for his alcoholism before that. In her eyes, I was the only one at fault. Even with the abuse and the depression he had caused, she loved him more than she could ever love me. But I was all she had left; I had tried, and failed, to take my own life. She would want to be there for me because I was all she had. 

But the look on the nurse's face tells me that she is telling the truth. My mother isn't here. I am completely alone. The sudden emptiness seems overwhelming and I stumble forward, the IV pole I grasp like a lifeline and the nurse's solid grip on my shoulder being the only things that keep me standing. The hollow feeling that swells within me seems to swallow me whole, leaving me with nothing. The skeleton boy is gone, the memories that I fought so hard to hide and the darkness that felt so completely encompassing, were all gone. I was alone.

The nurse laughs again, pulling my dismal attention back to her. "You didn't think they actually cared enough to come see you, did you?" Her words hit me like a wave, engulfing me and dragging me further into the emptiness that already was building inside of me. She leans closer, her lips near my ear. I want so badly to pull away, but I suddenly feel too weak. It takes everything I have to remain standing. "If you hadn't tried to kill yourself," She whispers, her breath hitting my ear in warm shock. "They would all gladly do it for you." Another shrill laugh.  _She's fucking enjoying this..._  I'm falling apart in front of her, and she's grinning from ear to ear. It makes me feel sick, my stomach clenching in knots and my skull throbs in pain, my breathing now shallow and strained. "Imagine if your father could see you now." 

"Stop," I beg. I want it all to end. The feeling I had been trying to hide comes rushing back and, again, I want nothing more than to just die. I want everything to go away. I want the emptiness and the misery to just disappear. I want to fall to the cold tile ground and watch as it all faded into darkness, this time with no more feeling at all.

"Frankie?" I hear the soft voice rather loudly through the pounding in my ears. My eyes are shut tightly, not wanting to see the sadistic nurse anymore, but I force them open, needing to see where the voice is coming from. 

When I finally peel my lids up, glancing around me, the nurse is gone. The lights above my head flicker ominously, illuminating the walls with an eerie white glow. There's no one around.

"Frank, I know..." The voice sounds again and I whip my head around, panicked. What the hell is going on? Am I hearing things now? An after effect of the medication, maybe? I have no idea. "I know you probably can't hear me, but I need you to know that I'm here for you."

A terrified feeling washes over me, the words not seeming to calm me. I can barely focus on them, really. I'm instead trying to figure out where they're coming from. They seem far off, like a distant beckoning, calling me forward. I feel drawn, but I don't know where to. My chest hurts, longing to see the face to which the voice belongs to. I bite my lip, my eyes grazing over the hallway before landing on the door I had previously come through. There.

I don't know how I know, but I do. I need to go back in there, back into the desolate hospital room. I throw the door open, rushing over the threshold, expecting to see a vacant hospital bed and, hopefully, the boy who has been speaking to me. But instead, I see nothing. A vast blackness spreads out before me, one single overhead light boring down onto me. Nothing else. Just simple darkness. Just me and the voice. "I am here for you." This time the voice is choked by tears. "But I need you to wake up. I don't know if I can do it without you."

I freeze, my body tensing and becoming completely still.  _What?_

My head begins spinning, everything around me becoming a mass of dizzy thoughts. It's all going through my mind so fast, I can't seem to focus on just one thing. My legs seem to give out beneath me, their stability collapsing and letting my numb body tumble to the ground. 

_I need you to wake up..._

_Wake up..._

And then the blackness overtakes me completely, forcing me once again into unconsciousness. 


	12. Chapter 12

Pain seems to pelt me from all sides, every viable part of my body cringing in on itself to avoid the attack. Of course, with my luck, it wasn't from an external source and the way I hug my own body closer doesn't help at all. I didn't even have time to open my eyes before the pain settled in. My only reaction is to take up the fetal position and wait for the agony to end.

_And what happens when it finally goes away?_  I wonder.  _What happens then?_  Do I open my eyes and see another hospital room, or darkness? An apathetic mother and over-worked nurse, or the skeleton boy? Fear swells inside of me, crammed against the pain in the small space of my mind and body, and I realize I don't want to open my eyes. I don't want to know what's real and what's a figment of my own demented imagination. I want to stay here, alone in the emptiness of my mind, forever. 

With less misery, of course. 

I hear myself whimper a little as the pain spreads from my arm toward the rest of my body, sending burning shocks everywhere like sparks of lightning. But somehow, even through the agonizing ache, the feeling seems vaguely familiar. I think it should be rather easy to remember where I've felt this kind of pain before, but in the middle of the writhing my mind goes blank. It's only when I hear the soft voice that I everything comes back to me. 

"It's almost over." I peel my eyes open, ignoring the protesting pain that pulses through me. I need to see him. I need to know he's real. Or as real as a mental formation can be.

It's dark, the only light seeming to radiate from the skeleton boy himself. My heart nearly stops when my eyes finally find him, standing a mere foot away, watching me with an empathetic gaze. He drops to his knees in an instant and I struggle to pull myself closer. He helps me sit up, placing his hands on either side of my face, and that's all I need. As soon as his skin makes contact with mine, the pain dulls. My mind becomes clearer and my vision sharpens, allowing me to focus more on the angel before me.

I open my mouth to speak. I need him to tell me what the hell is going on, I need to hear his voice again. But he simply shakes his head once, successfully silencing me, and I settle on watching him. The pain slowly subsides, leaving me breathing hard and feeling exhausted. I don't move, though I want to fall into his arms and never let him go.

A choked noise escapes my throat and I realize that silent tears stream down my cheeks. It only then occurs to me just how broken I felt without the skeleton boy beside me. He was my anchor; Holding me to something substantial. He's a simple figment of my imagination, but he's so real to me. He's more than I've had in a long time and the emptiness that overtook me when he disappeared felt suffocating, like I was drowning in the reality of how alone I really was.

"That was medication, wasn't it?" I finally ask. I remember easily now the first time the blue pain took over my body. The light that was injected into my arm, the agonizing burn that came with it, and the way the skeleton boy had made the pain disappear, like he just did once again. 

The angel nods. He's so close to me still, his beauty again shocking me, making me feel awestruck at his simple perfection.

"But..." I swallow hard, my words seeming to catch in my throat. "But I woke up." My breathing quickens at the memory. "I woke up in the hospital..." My words trail off painfully and the skeleton boy shakes his head.

"Your medication was diminishing." He explains and his voice shocks me to the core. Hearing it again, after the thought of losing him, seems like a godsend and I fight, once again, the urge to lean into him. "You were starting to wake up. You were being taken away from your subconscious, pulled toward reality. Into a dream."

I let out a shaky breath. "That was all a dream?" I ask. The angel nods. I close my eyes and this time allow myself to give into my desires. I pull the skeleton boy into a hug, wrapping my arms around his slender body and sighing in content when I feel his arms around me. "What's gonna happen," I say, mostly thinking out loud. "When I wake up? Will I forget you?"

I feel the skeleton boy shake his head, not seeing the movement as my face is buried in his chest. "You'll remember," He says. 

"What if I don't want to?" I demand.

"Remember?" He clarifies. "Well, they might just be vague thoughts that--"

"No," I shake my head quickly, cutting him off. This time, I lean back, needing to see his face. I want to remember all of this; His hazel gold eyes, his perky nose, his rugged jaw. I want to remember the feeling of his arms, so real, around me. "No. I mean, what if I don't want to wake up?"

The skeleton boy simply watches me for a long time. He doesn't speak, the silence between us hanging heavy like a noose. Eventually, he brushes some of my hair away from my face, letting his finger drag along my cheek. "I want you to wake up, Frank." He states. "Please. Do it for me."

I shake my head frantically, just the thought of waking up seeming like a curse. "I want to stay here with you."

"I'm not real, Frankie." His voice is soft, but the words seem to cut through me like knives. The final realization of the simple sentence seems searing, burning hotter than the medication ever could.

"No." I try to sound defiant, not sure if I was trying to convince myself or him, but the words are laced with the tears that are once again streaming. "This is real." I grasp the front of his jacket between my fingers. My eyes search his for some sign of comprehension. " _You_  are real." He still says nothing, his expression nothing more than sympathy. "Dammit, Gerard!"

I want to hit him and kiss him all at once, needing to feel him close to me but knowing that he's right; He isn't real. But then I realize what I said.  _Gerard?_  Who the hell is Gerard? For a slit second, I think it might just be a random name I subconsciously came up with; Calling him  _The Skeleton Boy_  all the time was weird. He's so real to me by this point, I think that maybe I decided to give him that name just to be able to call him something. But the smug smile that forms on his lips makes me realize that I'm wrong. That name... It means something, to him and certainly to me. 

"Why did I call you that?" I demand.

The skeleton boy,  _Gerard_ , just smiles, looking pleased. "You're starting to understand," He says.

But this small statement only confuses me more. "Understand what?"

His fingers brush against my jaw, his expression now beaming with joy. "Who I am."

"What?" I say quickly. "No, I don't get it." I can feel him being pulled away from me, some unknown force dragging him away, his body seeming to lose color, fading fast into the surrounding darkness. But I need answers. "Who are you?"

"I'm out there, Frankie," He says. "I have been the whole time. I'm just waiting for you to wake up."


	13. Chapter 13

I can almost feel the words echoing around in my head, the enchanting voice ringing out loud and clear and consuming me whole. It's enticing and mystical and I feel drawn towards sleep as it wraps warmly around me. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, fending off the sensation, knowing that I need to focus. 

_They think you're crazy_   
_They think you're mad..._

I feel the atmosphere around me spinning, making me dizzy. I don't open my eyes, letting the vertigo overwhelm me, and breathe out slowly. It's different from every other memory I've felt, this time trying to recall one that I can't consciously remember. In basic terms; I have no idea what the hell I'm even looking for, let alone trying to conjure right in front of me. My arms hang limply at my sides, my body feeling almost weightless, leaning back into the dead air. Everything is black, allowing myself to see nothing but the insides of my own eyelids. I want to make sure I get this right before I look. 

_They call you stupid_   
_Worthless_   
_Tell you you're not worth it..._

It makes my head pound incessantly. It feels like my brain is throwing itself against my skull, fighting to break through the confinement and join me in the blackness that surrounds me. My teeth start to grind together, my relaxed hands balling into tight fists.

_And now you're walking back_   
_To the place you call home_   
_But you feel so alone..._

It's nothing more than a dull ache at first before the pain and exhaustion wash over me like a flood of waves, taking my breath away. But I can't stop. I feel so close. I picture nothing more than the skeleton boy in my mind, trying my best to see past the face paint and the uniform and see  _him_. I need to see  _Gerard_. I need to know who he really is. I can feel my mind starting to open up, a few blurry and indecipherable images coming forward, but nothing I can make out. But it's coming. I can feel it.  _Dammit_ , I curse myself.  _I am so close..._

_The same hurtful hits_   
_It's your darker place_   
_In your virgin ears_   
_The remarks they make..._

It feels like my mind is crumbling around me, all of the memories and thoughts falling down one by one, shattering before they even hit the ground. The ground... I can't feel it under my feet anymore. It's like I'm floating in the midst of the chaos, an encompassing thick air swallowing me into unknown depths and pulling me away from the remaining debris of my mind that falls around me. It hurts so bad... It's like my mind is being pulled in a thousand different directions, confusing my body and making it scream in agony. Literally. I don't notice it for a moment, but when the shrill noise breaks through the pain, I realize I've been screaming. My throat feels raw, but it's a normal kind of pain. Not like the excruciating rip and tear of my own limbs as the skin begins rupturing, splitting apart, twisting and pulling in painful waves.

_And if they, if they really knew_   
_All of those things that you do_   
_In your room_   
_To hide the pain..._

"Frank!" The voice breaks through my pain like a jolt of electricity. It's loud and panicked but it sounds muffled, jumbled together with the crumbling thoughts and massive headache. I try to open my eyes, try to focus on just the voice, both one in the same though one sings to me, unaffected by my misery, while the other is screaming out to me. "Frank!"

_I bet their minds would change..._

The pain fades in my arms, becoming nothing more than a numb pulse, and then, slowly, the rest of my body. Both of the voices seem to disappear at once, along with the painful twists and tears of my body, leaving me feeling drained. I can't feel anything for a long moment and I fight to gain control of my own body, which now convulses erratically on the hard ground. I feel arms wrap around me, pulling me close to another person. I gain dominance of myself, struggling to reach a hand up, grasping blindly at whoever holds me. My fingers brush a stiff fabric and I clutch on. It's like suddenly my entire body, every inch of me, every fiber of my being, has been weighed down. I try to speak, not sure what I'm going to say, but it comes out as nothing but a pitiful whimper anyway.

"Shh," The person I hold so close hushes me. "It's okay, Frankie. You're safe now. Just go to sleep."

But I can't. It feels so alluring, the thought of falling asleep in his arms, but I have to see him. I have to know that he's real, or as real as my own imagination can be. It hurts, forcing my numb body to work, the pain prickling like needles, but I will my eyes open to mere slits. But it's enough to make out the blurred skeletal face-paint that hovers so close to me, the vibrancy of the piercing hazel eyes that bore into mine, before I pass out...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: If You Knew by Joel Faviere.  
> All lyrics copyright to him.


	14. Chapter 14

There's a bitter taste on my tongue, harsh and overpowering, but vaguely familiar. My throat is dry, my lips cracking, the skin rubbing roughly together when I close my mouth. I try to swallow the scant amount of saliva I can muster, willing the sour flavor to go away. It tastes like green. 

I hear a faint beeping noise, it's erratic rhythm filling my ears and making me squirm. But it hurts so much to move. Everything hurts. I try to remember what happened, but my thoughts seem fuzzy and jumbled, like a massive heap of... jumbled thoughts. 

I groan, both an internal gesture as well as outward. Fuck, my brain hurts.

"Move slowly," A strange and somewhat distant voice commands. "Your mind is still repairing itself. Straining will only damage you more."

I remain still, my head heavy with sleep. Not tiredness, more like I've been asleep for too long. My mentality seem incomplete, like I can't form one fully coherent thought. It's all just mixed up objects, vague, blurry images pressed against the black background. It hurts when I try to open my eyes, pain shooting through my skull. I take the moment of temporary paralysis to evaluate my body instead.

Dull pain courses through me at a steady pace, a stinging sensation trailing behind the ache and making it hurt all over again. It feels like blue.

Wait... Something is not right in that sentence. _Feels like blue?_

The pain seems to fade a little and I find myself blinking rapidly. My eyes feel dry and unused, but the movement doesn't send jolts of agony through my head, so I decide to test the rest of my body. I wiggle my fingers, small jerky spasms at first, but within a moment I'm stretching the digits to their full slim length and then coiling them back. I move my neck, the bones in my back cracking and my joints aching, but I can move without screaming in pain. I pull myself to a sitting position, letting my cramped legs stretch out in front of me, my back arching to hear more bones pop.

And then I look around and my motions cease.

It's destroyed. The black that I've grown so used to is gone, faded into a pale grey. It extends out endlessly in all directions like an overhanging cloud, but there's no horizon. There's no thin line where the earth meets the sky. It's an all encompassing grey color and jagged cracks break the even scene both above and under me. Fissures surround me like open wounds, pure white piercing through the trenches like sunlight, illuminating the never ending area. So many cracks, like ruptures of the earth. Debris litters the ground like the remaining crumbles of a building, rigid grey blocks trashing the now uneven surface.

"You could have killed yourself." The voice breaks through my thoughts and my eyes immediately find the skeleton boy. He's unharmed; A perfect image against the treacherous setting. The only thing that wasn't destroyed. He crouches next to me, clasping his hands in front of him and setting me with a worried, yet sturdy, look. "You almost did."

"What happened?" My voice cracks, rough and scratchy against my throat.

The skeleton boy shakes his head, looking disappointed. "You were looking for me," He says, shifting his hazel eyes to watch the surrounding destruction. I follow his lead and look back to the ruined scenery. "You were trying to remember how you know me, trying to find the corner of your brain that you have me hidden in."

I close my eyes, rubbing the bridge of my nose between my forefinger and thumb, his words making my head hurt even worse. I didn't understand what he was telling me.

He sighs. "I told you I am the formation of your own imagination and a memory, Frank." He looks back at me and narrows his eyes, concentrating. "You were trying to find the memory of how you know me."

I suddenly remember now, the agonizing pain now just a memory, but still so clear. I was trying to remember  _Gerard_. I look around us once again. "What happened to this place?" I ask, my voice still raw, but sounding somewhat stronger.

"You were breaking down the walls of your own mind." The skeleton boy tells me, looking down at his folded hands, his thumbs padding against each other. "You didn't know exactly what you were looking for so you were looking for everything. It's like searching for a treasure without a map, so you just grab a shovel and start digging." His eyes move around the ruins once more, his voice sounding sad. "You just end up with a bunch of holes." He sighs again before turning his gaze back to me. "When you break down the walls of your mind, you become overwhelmed. There are things you've subconsconciously buried for a reason, things you  _shouldn't_  remember, and things that are ever present at the forefront of your brain. When those things come crashing down, it's like you're drowning. It's too much to remember all at once. It nearly killed you."

I bite my lip and this time avert my own gaze. "That's what I want," I say. "That's why I'm here. Because I want to die."

The angel shakes his head quickly. "Not like this," He says, his voice taking on a hard edge. "It would have taken years to fully perish. You would lose your mind at first, become lost in an uncontrollable mass of thoughts and memories and you really  _are_  drowning. Your body would then become uninhabitable and you would be lost under the water, and it would fucking  _hurt_. More than trying to remember. It's a constant pain and when it finally becomes unbearable, you would find the darkness."

I swallow hard. Okay, so maybe trying to force memories wasn't the best idea. Note taken. But the point was still there like a flashing sign; I want to die.

"Is that why you don't want me to remember the night my father died?" I ask.

The skeleton boy nods. "I'm afraid that it will be too much for you. That's a memory that's better left buried."

"Are you a buried memory?" I wonder, my words almost silent. If Gerard is a memory that I subconsciously buried, then he must be a bad memory, right? And that scares me. I can't imagine this angel being a horrible memory, something so terrible that I wouldn't even want to remember. 

But he shakes his head. "No. I'm not a buried memory." I actually let out a relieved sigh. "You can't remember me fully because you're looking in the wrong places." He cocks his head suddenly and narrows his eyes. "What did you mean when you said  _it felt like blue_?"

I roll my eyes, knowing that my thoughts had just been jumbled. It didn't  _mean_  anything, it was just a mistake. And then I realize something. "Blue," I say. "It's the medicine. It always hurts when they give me the blue medicine."

The skeleton boy smiles, nodding his approval. He's going somewhere with this, but I honestly cannot see where. "So you associated the color with the pain."

"Yeah, I guess so." I say.

"And your mouth," He raises an eyebrow. "What does your mouth taste like?"

I think for a moment before answering. "Green."

His smile grows wider. "Exactly."

I can only shake my head. "No," I say. "I don't get it. What does that even mean?"

The skeleton boys simply continues watching me, appraising me with a content smile. "You'll understand soon enough. But for now, I think we should focus on something else."

I sigh, kind of irritated. I want to demand that he tell me the importance of  _tastes like green_ , but instead I settle on saying, "And what's that?"

"They will be waking you up soon." My heart sinks. No. No, I don't want to wake up. Apparently the skeleton boy can sense my sudden panic and places a soothing hand on my outstretched leg. "They could tell when your mind started crumbling," He explains. "They think you've been comatose for too long. They'll be trying to wake you up soon to ensure no further damage. And I think we have one more thing to do before then."

"What do we have to do?" I wonder.

The skeleton boy stands up and smiles sadly, showing his disapproval, yet stretching out an open hand to me. "You want to remember your father's death. Then I will help you."


	15. Chapter 15

"Relax," His breath is in my ear, sending chills down my spine and only making me more tense. He's so close, both of his hands resting on my hips, his chest pressed almost completely flat against my back. I force myself to breathe evenly and close my eyes, his touch disappearing though I can still feel his presence prominently. "What do you remember from that night?" He asks. I can hear his voice moving as he walks around me in slow deliberate steps.

I bite my lip, concentrating on his words and my own memories which now seem terrifyingly distant. My thoughts are still jumbled and the skeleton boy urged me to wait until I was finished healing to try to press the memory, but I couldn't wait. I wasn't sure how much more time I had here, safe inside my own mind.

I fight my way through memories of my father, all of them flooding my head at once, and I will them to slow down, wanting time to scrutinize each and every one. But of course my mind rejects that request and I have to focus even more on the vague images as they whir by, trying to grasp specific things that seem to pop out; Glass. A lot of glass. Blood. Crimson liquid, sticky against my bare hands and sneakered feet, and warm as it soaked into my clothing, staining not only my jeans but my mind as well. As soon as I have a grasp on part of the memory, the entire night comes back to me like a slingshot, all at once, and I can feel it once again. Every single detail like a tidal wave crashes against me and I suck in a breath, actually feeling the waters tearing at my throat. My eyes flit open in a second and I'm staring at the worst nightmare I've ever had.

The night my father died. 

It was addictive at first, the memory filling my thoughts for days after the original incident, replaying in a constant, taunting loop. It mocked me, showing again and again the blood that I brandished and the terror on my mother's face. The guilt and horror of my own actions seemed to bear down on me at all times. The police insisted on therapy, which I attended regularly for a few months. And then I found my own therapy; the drinking, the partying. It was a temporary fix to the depression and I thought it was a permanent fix for the memory. The night my father died became a blurred memory buried in the back of my mind... Until now. Now, I watched once again as the scene I tried so hard to forget played before my own eyes. 

Thirteen year old me was standing near the kitchen sink, looking down meekly at his Converse. His hands twisted together, shame clear on his weak features. I looked so young, I note. So innocent. But that innocence will soon end. As if on cue, my father barges into the room, looking furious. A half-empty beer bottle hangs loosely between his fingers and I know it's already his third so far that night. His  _last_  that night, in fact. His last beer  _ever_.

"What was that noise?" He demands, but no one answers him. Instead, his eyes find my mother, on her knees to the right of my younger self. She picks up a few bigger shards from the shattered glass, placing them delicately into the fold of her apron. And then his eyes flash back to Frank. The skeleton boy and I stand behind him, near the doorway leading toward the living room, and I'm silently thankful that I can't see the anger on my father's face. I already know it all too well. But I can clearly make out my own young features, my bottom lip tucked in between my teeth, my eyes cast downward. "Did you break the glass?" 

Young Frank ignores the question, a mistake I know now. I could have answered him right away and maybe the entire fight would have been avoided. But retrospection now isn't going to help anything and I focus on my mother. She clambers to her feet, tossing some of the glass into the trash bin and going back to her place near the stove, the remaining glass glinting on the tile floor at her feet. 

"Please, calm down, John," My mother speaks up, her voice soft. The words sound hopeless. She knows as well as I do that it's useless.

"I'm talking to you, boy. Don't make me repeat myself." My father says, but continues before I have the chance to even let out a breath. "I said, did you break the glass?"

Frank nods and I see the younger boy swallow hard. He tries to put on a strong facade, something I remember trying to pull off in the terrifying situation, and meets my father's eyes. "Yes, Dad. I broke the glass."

I am suddenly aware of just how tense my body is; My spine is rigid, both of my fists clenched tightly at my side. I realize, with a jolt, that I'm feeling the same anger I felt that night, four years ago. The animosity that was so new to me on that night now seems almost ordinary.  _Almost_... The fear mixed with a heavy dose of adrenaline and just a dash of hatred made me do something crazy, something that haunted me for months. And here I was, facing it again. But this time, I wasn't the same little kid. I wasn't some innocent child that he could push around. The change that took place that night stayed with me all these years, even if the memory didn't. 

I feel the angel's hand on my shoulder and nearly give in to the serenity he is trying to make me feel. But I don't want to be calm right now. Right now, I want to see my father's face as he takes his last dying breath. I push my feet forward, my jaw clamped tight, willing my hatred to move me closer to the person I've despised for so long.

My father throws the beer bottle he holds, connecting with the wall and breaking into heavy shards, the thick brown glass and amber liquid scattering in pieces across the floor. I move around him as he starts yelling, his rampage blinding him to my weak apologies.

"Sorry doesn't cut it, now does it?" He demands furiously. His rage seems to only amplify, making the air thick. My breathing seems sparse, my own anger swelling inside. That son of a bitch ruined my life, he took away my childhood, he beat me until I couldn't see straight. I spent the first year or so making up excuses; He was drunk, he didn't know what he was doing. But after awhile, it became normal and he broke apart every piece of me, ever single  _fucking_  piece, until I was thirteen. That was when I snapped. And there was no coming back from that. Most people would feel remorse; They would look back on their actions as some sort of mistake, but here I was standing right in front of my father and the only thing that filled my mind was the blinding rage and the need to feel his blood soaking my skin once again.

I grind my teeth together, now standing directly beside my younger self. "How about I break that fucking face of yours?" My father demands of younger Frank, his words dripping with a venom that I can feel sting just as much as the first time I heard them. "And then say sorry."

I watch as my father raises his arm, bringing his fist down to connect harshly with the younger boy's cheek. I can both hear and feel the bitter pain, hatred flooding my vision. The animosity is so much that I can feel it start breaking my mind again, turning into a burning pain through my body, but it was manageable. I could deal with the pain if it meant that I could see this bastard bloody again. The walls fade from a pale yellow-brown into a murky grey, cracks forming as they start to shake. That's new, but I can't focus on that right now. All I can see is the look on my father's face as he hits younger Frank again and again. He looks, in all definitions, like a monster. His eyes flash with a pure hatred, a drunken haze seeming to cloak him, but not enough so to make his actions acceptable. And in that moment, the only thing I want is to protect myself. Not my own manifestation, but the memory of my younger self. He doesn't need to lose his innocence like this, he doesn't need to feel the pleasurable pain of killing his father. I can save him. I can do it myself.

I lunge forward, my face warping into a snarl, and feel the slightest amount of satisfaction when my body connects with my father's, both of us toppling to the hard ground. I ball my hand into a solid fist and the first blow connects with his nose, a delightful crunch filling my ears as the bone snaps. He's strong, struggling against my weight on top of him, but the rage and adrenaline gives me the strength I need to keep him pinned, blow after excruciating blow. The blood that escapes his nose and lip mingles with my own that flows freely from my pale knuckles, but I don't stop. I can't. I can feel the weakness that overtakes him slowly and it makes me feel almost sad. I like it when he fights back. It reminds me of the monster that I know he is. But I don't mind; his lack of aggression makes it easier for me to find the broken bottle, my fingers wrapping around the thick glass. I bring it down, not caring that it makes a gash in the palm of my hand, and let it sink into his chest. Pulling it back out, now tainted with crimson liquid, I shove it forward again. Seven times, I stab him. His body is now limp, completely motionless, but I don't want to stop. I only restrain myself, just barely, when I feel hands wrapping around my arms, pulling me away. I struggle at first, screaming at the lifeless figure, tears stinging my eyes. "You bastard!" I scream, over and over again until my voice feels raw. "You fucker, I hate you! I hate you!"

I feel it once again, the familiar warmth of his fresh blood staining my jeans, lathering my hands and making the glass, which I still have my fingers wrapped tightly around, slick. I lay back on the ground, sitting with my legs bent in front of me, screaming more profanities. My vision goes blurry through the wave of tears, my shrieks becoming broken sobs that shake my entire body. An aching pain courses through me but it subsides slowly as strong arms wrap around me. I cling onto his uniform, the black fabric stiff and familiar under my fingertips, and cry into the skeleton boy's chest. He waits for what feels like an endless amount of time, holding me, and it seems like the scene around me has frozen because when I get my breathing back to normal, the tears only stains on my cheeks, and look back to my father's body, no time has passed at all.

My younger self is still sitting on top of my father, his body looking so small and fragile. His chest heaves, his breathing uneven and shallow. He watches the face of the man that was once my dad, taking in every bloody detail, before glancing up at my mother. At some point, she sank to her knees on the broken glass, her own blood meeting the floor in scarce measurements. She watches the younger boy, tears in her eyes, with a terrified expression. 

"Mom," Younger Frank says, his voice cracking and sounding scared. He reaches out to her, silently asking her to understand why he did what he just did, begging for her help in some way. But she scoots back away from him, shaking her head no like she's denying that her son just killed her husband, _like she's denying her only child the comfort that he needs._

She didn't realize that I was just as scared as she was. I was horrified beyond belief, looking down at the mess I made, and she was rejecting me. I did this for her as well as for me. I did this so that we could live some happy, apple-pie life, so that we wouldn't have to worry about my father anymore. And she was telling me no.

I saw the last light of my innocence leave my eyes, the final glimmer of hope and forgiveness disappear. My hazel eyes became a shade darker, the numbness settling in and pushing every emotion I wanted to feel aside. I had just killed my father and now my mother was denying me. I had no one. I was just empty.

I feel a hand brush through my hair and lean into the skeleton boy, needing him now more than ever. I needed to feel his arms around me, I wanted to hear his voice filling my ears with promises I could actually believe in. I needed to know that I had someone who was there for me.

But he isn't real. The realization dawns once again that he is a mere figment of my imagination. The memory he comes from could be in the deepest part of my mind, somewhere dark and unnoticed, and I would never know who  _Gerard_  is. I bite my lip against the building urge to cry again and close my eyes.

I hear a small humming noise in my ear, a song I don't recognize taking over all of my senses as I focus on just the sound, his voice taking over only a second later.

_Throw the bottle_   
_Break the door_   
_And disappear..._

The bitter taste settles in my mouth again, the taste I couldn't exactly remember.  _Green_... It burns almost, stinging and tasting too harsh, like my mind is willing me to remember it.

_Sing me to sleep_   
_I'll see you in my dreams..._

Before I can even wrap my head around it, more thoughts bombard me, coming at me like gunshots. Crying. A lot of crying, but not me. It's vague, but I can make out the image of a long corridor lined with...  _Lockers_? Okay, school. A depressing aura seems to settle over the image, people dressed in black. A few voices, mumbled together, come from some far away memory, some conversation I remember hearing.

"The weird kid with the glasses?"

"He was just a Freshman."

"How did he do it?"

"Hung himself. I heard his brother was the one that found him."

_Waiting to say_   
_'I miss you, I'm so sorry...'_

Suddenly, I'm sucking in a sharp breath. My chest hurts, my lungs seeming to ache like they haven't been used... Or they've been used too much. I realize with horror that I've been screaming. I didn't notice at first, the memories and singing seeming too loud in my ears to hear myself. But when all of the noise seems abruptly cut off, I sit there in the skeleton boy's arms, inhaling shallow breaths and my head spinning. Finally, I turn to him, my eyes wide with panic. His own vibrant eyes meet mine with anticipation and he knows what I'm going to say before the words even leave my lips, falling clumsily into the heavy air between us.

"Mikey Way," I pant, clutching onto the angel even tighter. "I remember something. A name. Mikey Way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Lullabies by All Time Low.  
> All lyrics copyright to them.  
> Also, just a fun fact; This is the song that gave me the entire idea for this story. So yeah. If you don't know the song, you should check it out. -Rachel


	16. Chapter 16

I pace in front of the skeleton boy, my eyes closed and the bridge of my nose pinched tightly between my thumb and index finger. I don't need to watch where I'm going; The vast darkness has surrounded us once again. Heavy black air stretches out in all directions, it's monotonous encasing only broken by the relaxing presence of the beautiful angel. He seems to shine, his aura sending off a vibrant glow that radiates through my mind. He looks mesmerizing. He's sitting cross-legged on the dark ground, his hands clasped together in his lap. He watches me intently, a small amount of amusement in his vibrant hazel eyes though they reveal mostly encouragement. He knows that I'm trying to remember and he's silently cheering me on. 

That's why I have my eyes closed. I can't look at him. If I were to look at him, my thoughts would be lost. He makes my heart beat and my palms sweat. He makes me want to do crazy things like tear apart my own mind or pull him into a passionate kiss, neither of which can happen. He offered to leave me alone to follow the thoughts on my own, knowing that his presence could be distracting, but I wanted him to stay. I don't want to feel alone. I hate feeling alone. When I'm alone, I want to die. But with the skeleton boy here, I feel  _alive_. Even when I'm not looking at him, I know there's something special about him. He's my own personal angel. He's showing me that I  _should_  live. 

"Mikey Way..." I mutter the name aloud for the millionth time. It sounds fake on my tongue; Too heavy, the syllables seeming to fall together into one word. After repeating it so many times, it doesn't even sound real. "Mikey. Way." I sigh, biting my lip. I've been chewing the skin for awhile now. Time seems immeasurable as well as unimportant. Seconds are the same as minutes or hours to me here in the dark. But I know that I've been gnawing on it long enough to make the inside of my lip raw, the taste of iron mingling with the sour flavor of green.

"Green?" I stop mid-step, letting my head drop forward in defeat and my arms hang limply at my sides. "I don't fucking get it." I say, sighing out a single breath and then turning to face the skeleton boy. He smiles up at me. "What the hell does it all mean?"

The skeleton boy rises slowly to his feet, his movements swift and graceful and I find myself admiring the way his body moves with such confidence. How his legs are so limber, untangling themselves with ease. How his torso seems to be pulled almost by an invisible string and making the rest  of his slim figure follow suit as if he were weightless. His face is so relaxed, a placid smile in place. He seems so...  _angelic_. His eyes glimmer in some unseen light, a vibrant green specked with flecks of brown and gold and black, like paint splattered on an otherwise untouched canvas. They seem so clear, like I'm staring straight past the delicate pupils, seeing something so pure and magical. Something...  _unreal_. 

The adjective chosen makes my own smile falter, fading completely as the harsh reality hits again. The skeleton boy is not real. He is not an angel or a guardian or even a person. He is my imagination. He's a cruel reminder that I'm in a coma. I'm not awake. I'm not pacing the darkness. In my mind, I am. But my body...

My body is out there, cramped into the small confines of a hospital room, probably alone, being fed through a tube that's been shoved down my throat. I'm asleep and all of this is in my head.

But even at the heartache that stings in my chest at the thought, I yearn to reach out and touch the perfect boy. He  _feels_  real. He  _looks_ real.  _All of this is real to me_. What's not real are the emotions I faked for so long. The happiness I tried to make everyone see, even my mom. What's not real is the fact that, at this moment right now, I feel content. Hell, I feel  _happy_  which is something I haven't felt in so long.

The skeleton boy comes face to face with me, coming to rest a few inches taller.

"I'll be right beside you," He promises.

I swallow hard, opening my mouth to say something but my words are cut short by the prickling feeling that seems to scratch at me. At first, it's nothing more than a gentle brush against my calloused fingertips. The sensation moves at a steady pace, traveling slowly up through my wrist, my arm, my entire body. I look down at myself in confusion, waiting to see the blue light, feel the burning pain of my medication. Instead, I just feel... numb.

I look back to the skeleton boy, beginning to panic. "What's happening?" I demand. 

The angel smiles sadly. "You're waking up."

"No." It's the only word I can form at first, the panic and terror swelling up at just the thought. "No, no, no." I take in a sharp breath, fighting with every ounce of my being against the internal pull I feel, tugging me toward the outside world. "I'm scared," I admit. My voice shakes only slightly at the fear that builds within me. My face, on the other hand, is much more revealing of my emotions, I'm sure. My eyes are wide and pleading. Every fiber of my being aches for this skeleton boy. "I don't want to go."

"Everything will be okay," He promises, but his words are meaningless to me right now.

I shake my head. "How can you be so sure?"

He doesn't answer right away. He moves his touch to my cheek, grazing my skin with the side of his hand. I lean into the touch, letting my eyes close against the tears I can feel coming, focusing on nothing but the electrifying contact of his skin. I breathe in, forcing myself to look at him, taking in every detail of this skeleton boy. His eyes are a piercing hazel and they seem to send a physical warmth through the vibrant gaze. His lips are a pale shade of pink, turned upward in a soft smile and the color seems to blend with his also pale flesh. I take both of his hands in mine and I'm sure he can feel them trembling. "Please," I beg, my voice choking on the tears that sting at my eyes. "Don't make me go."

He lets out a small breath of air that hits my face and neck, sending tranquil chills through me. He brushes my cheek again, pushing some dark hair behind my ear and letting his hand rest on the nape of my neck. He leans toward me, his voice nothing more than a whisper when he speaks. "I'll always be right here."

His lips brush mine, just barely, but enough for my body to electrify. It feels like every nerve ending within me is alive, convulsing with the gentle touch of the kiss. I close my eyes, letting myself lean into him, gripping the stiff fabric of his uniform between my fingers, pulling him even closer. More electricity moves through my veins, my blood seeming to carry the current of electrical waves to every inch of my body. With my eyes shut tightly, I don't see anything but the darkness, avoiding the tunnel vision and blurred sight as I'm pulled, finally, into consciousness.

When I eventually feel my physical body wrap around my mind, twitching my fingers and breathing in, I still taste the kiss lingering on my lips...


	17. Chapter 17

I don't want to open my eyes. I don't want to see the empty hospital room, the too pure color of the vapid white walls, the IV I can feel pulsing medication into my body. If I don't open my eyes, I can pretend it's not real. I can pretend, just for those last few moments, that I'm still asleep, safe in the confines of my mind with the skeleton boy. I can pretend that I didn't fail. I can pretend that I'm dead.

"How much longer?" The voice nearly makes me jump out of my skin. I didn't realize that I wasn't alone. Still, I force myself to maintain my motionless posture, harder than it seems because the overbearing urge to stand and stretch my arms seems so enticing. I notice that when the voice echoes, sounding too loud and harsh in the silent room, the constant beeping of the monitor to my right speeds up, the rhythm picking up in tempo. I force my breathing to slow down, my heart rate following.

"He'll be awake soon," A second voice, male as well as the first, but this one is softer. Quieter, more relaxed, but there's an authoritative edge to it. "He needs to rest."

A scoff echoes, which I assume was let loose from the first person, and an irritated third voice takes over. "He's been in a coma for twelve days. How much more rest could he possibly need?"

There's a small silence and the air suddenly feels tense. The second voice, the only voice I actually like so far, speaks again. His words are spoken slow, quiet and full of unspoken threat. "This kid is seventeen. He tried to kill himself. You see those scars on his arms? Do you want me to raise the blanket and show you a thousand more just like them?" Another second of heavy silence as if he's daring the other voices to test him. "Now, I don't care if you're a detective or not. You need to go wait in the lobby. Let me do my job."

The voices stop, the sound of shoes against tile floor the only thing audible before the click of a door latching shut. 

I don't know if I'm alone or not anymore, unsure of whether the nice, soothing voice has left with the others, but I remain still because my mind seems to be spinning with questions.

_Twelve days_? That's how long I've been here? I don't know what I expected, whether two or twenty, but it feels like so long. Twelve days I've been comatose. Twelve days I've been with the skeleton boy, away from my mom and school and the real world. Twelve days since I've taken the medication. Twelve days since I tried to die.

Who were those men? The second voice, the one that made the others leave, was probably the doctor, that much I had gathered from his words.  _"Let me do my job."_  He had called the others detectives. As in  _police_? Why the hell are the cops waiting for me to wake up!? Is suicide illegal? Are they going to take me to jail? I don't want to go to jail. Sure, I wanted to die, but I didn't want to get shanked or man raped. But then what other reason could they have for being here, waiting for me?

I should ask my mom. She has to be here, right? She'll know why the detectives are waiting. I'm a minor; They would have had to talk to her before speaking with me. So where is she? Is she in the lobby? That's where the doctor sent the other voices to, so maybe she's in the lobby.

"You have food on the tray, Frank." The voice shocks me once again though the sound comes from the man I assumed to be the doctor. I feel my body freeze, tensing up and my breathing stops. He can't be talking to me-- He just told the others that I was still asleep. A soft chuckle reverberates through the room, sounding too close but that's probably just because the room is small. All hospital rooms are small. They save the big rooms for people who have a lot of visitors, like women who just had babies or cancer patients who will be staying for awhile. So it makes sense that my room is small. The only visitor I would expect is my mother, though even that isn't a guarantee.

I focus back on the voice, straining to make myself look unconscious but fail. I end up heaving out a sigh. I feel my body relax. It seems strange now, lifting heavy limbs and speaking mumbled words. It was so much easier in my head, when everything felt weightless, even though it didn't seem like it at the time. Kind of like a dream; While you're sleeping, everything feels so real. You have no sense of rationality. You could be running down an empty hallway and have no clue why. You're sure you're running from something, you can feel it, but you don't stop and turn around to see what's chasing you. In real life, you don't just feel it. You see it first, you see the monster that you are afraid of, and then you run. But in the dream, everything is just feeling. Just at that moment, I remember the kiss, almost feeling it in every way-- The way his lips parted slightly against mine, his breath and my own mingling, my hands clamped onto his uniform in desperation. But I can see it, too. I can see the pale hair that shimmers in some unseen light, the soft jawline and perky nose. His eyes are closed, just like mine, but at the thought, I find myself gasping, suddenly feeling like I'm back inside the memory. My eyelids flutter open, the crumbles of sleep forming at the corner, and the overhead lights nearly blind me. I raise a hand to cover my eyes, squinting against the bright light. My arm feels heavier than I remember it being, probably weighed down by the various IV's and tubes.

I take in the sight; A small, vapid hospital room, just as I had predicted. The four walls are lined with a dull beige border, brown and grey flowered wallpaper against a white background. White hospital bed, white sheets, white gown. Everything is too white, too pure of a color for the darkness I feel so used to that dominates my own head. I'm hooked up to a heart monitor, the beeping now back at a usual pace, the red line waving to show me that I'm alive. There's an old style television mounted to the wall, antennas poking out in two different directions to look like bunny ears, and a remote on the bedside table. Finally, my eyes land on the only other person in the room.

He's tall, I can tell even from my position lying on the bed, clothed in bright blue scrubs. He has his arms crossed and he leans against the door frame, his curly brown hair budding out in every direction in the style of a messy afro. His full lips spread out, stretching into a small smile.

I clear my throat, my mouth feeling dry and unused, and pull myself to a sitting position, letting the rough sheets fall away and exposing my hospital gown. I can see my own arms, the scars lining my skin. It comes as a shock, even to me. I'm so used to covering myself up with long sleeves and jackets. The pale flesh is scattered with markings, showing off my battle wounds, my own self destruction. Some of the thin lines are a dark pink, the skin puckered from the ragged cuts of a blade while others are smooth and pale, healing to only leave a slight reminder of my self inflicted pain. There are a couple burns, too, some from myself and others from my father, each of them holding a different story through the indented scars. I immediately pull my arms together, hugging myself against the embarrassment. I don't want this complete stranger to see me like this, vulnerable and exposed. I lift my chin higher and watch him, forcing the words from my mouth. "How did you know I was awake?"

The man smiles easily. "I'm the nurse that's been taking care of you. I've seen you unconscious for twelve days." He shrugs one shoulder limply. "Your breathing was faster, as was your heart rate. You kept grabbing the sheets, too. So I figured either you were awake or having a bad dream." He smiles again and steps forward, his clean white shoes squeaking mutely against the tiled floor. The smell of cleaning supplies fills my lungs and makes a dull throb in my head, but I try to push it away as the man stretches an arm out between us. "I'm Ray."

I search his face, hesitant for a long moment, before finding no expression but friendliness. I put my hand in his. "Frank," I say, though clearly he already knows my name.

Ray smiles again. I like his smile. His features are hard, his rugged jawline and the sharp curve of his nose, the intimidating brow-line that shadows his dark eyes. He looks tough, but the happy smile seems to break through that, giving him a somewhat feminine edge. Not girly, as he is clearly a man, but... Soft. Affectionate and sympathetic.

After a long moment of awkward eye contact, I retract my hand, pulling it out of his firm grip and tangling it in the sheets instead. I drop my gaze, looking down as well and realizing that my arms are still visible. I push them both under the blanket, pulling it up to my shoulders and dragging my knees upward to my chest, folding in on myself and making my body, if possible, smaller.

"Umm..." I look around the room, at anything but him, feeling rather bare under his scrutiny. "Where's my mom?"

Ray doesn't answer, silence filling the room and bringing with it a tight knot that settles in the pit of my stomach. Finally, I look up at him to see him watching me with sad eyes, though he looks away the moment I catch him staring. He turns around, his hands clasping and this time he's the one being evasive. He starts to fumble with the food, setting it out on a dull colored tray, his movements seeming deliberate. I can only see his back but his stance is rigid, his spine straight and hard.

"Ray?" I wonder, my own words coming out slow.

He spins around, an obviously fake smile plastered on his rugged features. "Here." He slides the tray forward on the mobile table, the flat surface now hovering over my bed. "Eat this. You need real food."

"Where's my mom?" I ask again. I don't mean for my voice to sound so harsh, but the words come out feeling solid, and he bites his lip. 

"The detectives need to talk to you," He says, his voice low and void of all previous happiness. "They'll be able to explain."

"Explain what?" I demand. The monitor beeps faster, alerting us to the increased beat of my heart, but I already know. I can feel it as it pounds against my rib cage and worry seems to settle in. "Just let me see my mom."

Ray opens his mouth to reply, but shuts it just as fast when I decide that I've had enough bullshit. I push the tray away from the bed, shoving the blanket off, and swing my feet over the side of the mattress. If Ray isn't going to tell me anything, I'll find out for myself. He puts his hands up, rushing to my side and forcing me, mostly gently, back down into a sitting position. "I'll go get them," He promises. "Just... Stay there. Please."

I wait impatiently, my thoughts whirring around in my head like a wind tunnel. I'm vaguely reminded of when I tried to remember the skeleton boy, the walls of my mind crashing down around me, but this time it's not images and memories that flood me. It's distrust. The detectives are here for a reason, while my mom is not. Ray knows something, but he won't tell me anything. So what the hell is going on?

I'm getting restless and, after almost twenty minutes of waiting, I'm about to stand up and go in search of some answers when the wooden door glides open. It's nearly silent and I swallow hard when my eyes meet those of a suit-clad man, late thirties by my guess, with thinning brown hair and a budding mustache. The man who follows close behind him, also sporting a high class tie and jacket, is smaller, younger, and he looks annoyed.

"Frank Iero?" The first man asks. He narrows his eyes as if he's having trouble seeing, his bushy brows coming together to form a unibrow, only a small sliver of skin showing on the bridge of his nose. He tugs a slick black wallet from a pocket hidden inside his jacket, opening it and turning it so I can have a clear view of a badge and ID. I barely glance at it, keeping my eyes focused on him. "I'm Detective Francis. This--" He motions with his head to the smaller officer, a blonde haired man who has his arms folded across his chest. "--is my partner, Detective Braddock." He looks to the blue cushioned chair that remains unoccupied to my right. "Can I sit?"

I shrug. I don't care if he hangs upside down from the ceiling as long as he gives me answers. "Where is my mom?" I demand. I cross my own arms, which are still hidden by the blanket. It smells like bleach and the scent makes me feel nauseous but I don't focus on that at the moment.

Detective Francis sits down, his dark eyes coming back to mine. He purses his lips and leans forward toward the bed. "Son, you've been in a comatose state for twelve days," He says. I bite my tongue, fighting against the urge to argue. I know this already. That was not my question. But he sighs and continues. "The doctor's normally don't keep patients under for that long but, after the incident, it was requested by our supervisor. We needed more time to figure out what to do with you."

My body seems to freeze. What exactly was he saying? "Are..." I hesitate, my voice sounding suddenly innocent and child-like. Scared. "Are you arresting me?"

Francis tilts his head to one side, his eyes widening a little at my comment. "Arresting you?" He sounds surprised. "What for?"

I avert my eyes back to the sheet in front of me, biting at my lip. "I tried to kill myself. You probably think I'm insane. Or dangerous."

I glance back up at the detective who is nodding thoughtfully. He runs a hand over his thick mustache and looks back to me. "We do have some fears that you'll hurt yourself again," He admits. "Which is why we needed more time. We couldn't let you go to just any foster home--"

"Foster home?" I demand. I want my words to sound venomous and angry but they come out choked, and again I sound terrified. "Why? My mom can take care of me. She's been depressed since my dad died, but she can get better. I don't want to go to a foster home."

I realize I'm ranting and my words cease immediately when I see the glance, one short and sad look, shared between the two detectives. My heart seems to sink and I swallow hard at the lump that's risen in my throat. The second detective, Braddock, uncrosses his arms, handing over to Francis a crumpled piece of paper I didn't realize he was holding.

Okay, what the  _hell_  is going on?

I watch them both, focusing mostly on Francis who unfolds the single paper. He keeps his eyes turned down, licking over his lips once, before looking up at me. His gaze has softened and that only worries me more. "Can somebody just please tell me where the fuck my mom is?" I demand.

My hands are shaking as Francis hands me the paper, standing up. He looks older all of a sudden, watching me with a sympathetic look. When he speaks, his words are soft, his voice sounding overused, and tears that refuse to come over swell in his eyes. "We'll be right outside."

My heart seems to have stopped. I know my breathing has. I hold the air inside my lungs, not wanting to feel them deflate once again, a reminder that I am still living. Suddenly I understand. My mom isn't here. She probably never was and she never will be.

I watch the closed door for a long time, frozen, before I look down at the paper. The letter. Her final note. I never left one of these. I never had a reason. When I tried to kill myself, I didn't care about leaving behind a legacy, a reason, my motive. I wanted to leave them with exactly what they gave me; Nothing.

But that was the difference between me and my mother. She wanted to let me know why, she wanted me to be left with something. And when she decided to end her life, she didn't fail.


	18. Chapter 18

_Frank,_

_I'm so sorry. For everything. I don't really know where to start this, I just have so much I want to say to you. But I can't look at you, laying in the hospital bed with a tube down your throat and hooked up to a monitor, and tell you that I am giving up. I could say that I'm writing this letter instead of telling you face to face because I want you to know and I'm not sure you could even hear me while you're in a coma, but that's not all true. I can't bare to look at you and know that you tried to kill yourself because of me. I can't handle the pain of knowing that I am the one to blame. Writing this letter is easier for me and you know that I've always been a coward._

_I'm sorry for everything I let your father do to you. I sat back and watched him beat you because I was too scared to step in. I loved him and I was stupid for believing that he might change. You were always so much stronger than I was and I'm sorry that I allowed him to hurt you in any way for so long. I won't spend this entire letter reminiscing on things I should have done because it's no use; It's done now and I can't take it back, no matter how much I wish I could. But all I have to say is I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry for abandoning you. When you needed me the most, I gave up because I was weak. You are strong, Frank. You can keep going. In all honesty, I think I gave up a long time ago. When your father died, I didn't know what to do. I couldn't protect you from the questions and the accusations but you told the lawyers the truth and you defended yourself which is something I've never been able to do. You held your head high and all I did was stay in bed and take medication that made me act like I was already dead. I'm sorry I could never be the mother you needed._

_I'm sorry that I can't face you now. By the time you wake up, I will be gone and you will never have to face my disappointments ever again. I am so sorry that I have let you down in so many ways, but I want you to know that I have always loved you and you have always made me so proud._

_I'm proud of you, Frank._

_I've never told you that before, even before your father started abusing you. I never just looked you in the eyes and made it known that you are a wonderful person and I couldn't be more proud to have you as my son._

_I know about the scars; I saw them on the first day when I came to see you. I know you've harmed yourself and I know that I am to blame. I can't apologize enough for the pain I've caused you, but I can put an end to it by ending my life. I can't take away anything that has happened in the past but I can prevent any further harm because I hate to see you hurting._

_In order to save your life, I will take my own._

_Promise me that you won't kill yourself, Frank. I want you to live your life, follow your dreams, and become the man I know you were meant to be. You have so much potential and I can't bare the thought of taking that away from you._

_I don't know if you hear him, but I met one of your friends. He sings to you, I've heard him, but sometimes he just talks or cries. He seems like more than just a friend but you've never mentioned him, or maybe you have and I was too drugged up to notice. He's nice and I think he really cares about you. I want you to keep him close, cherish him, because the good things never last. One day, he might be gone and you'll be left with nothing more than a memory._

_I love you, Frank. Take care of yourself because I can't be there to do it for you. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for the monster I've been._

_-Mom._


	19. Chapter 19

Tears stain my cheeks and my knuckles are as white as the crumpled paper I grasp tightly in my hands. She's gone. My mom is dead. My head seems to flood with thoughts, memories, and images as my eyes rake over and over again the scrawled messy handwriting.

What am I supposed to do now? Where do I go? A foster home? I won't be eighteen for nearly ten more months. I can't live on my own. Even if I were old enough, how would I support myself? I don't have a house, not anymore, or a job. I don't have anything...

I try not to think about it, but the intrusive question keeps finding it's way into my mind and I shy away from wanting to know the crude details. Still, every imaginable scenario is playing through my head.

_How did she do it?_

Did she overdose, like I had tried? The thought of her body lying limp on the floor, twisted unnaturally or maybe peacefully, assaults me but it's the best image so far. I don't want to think of her hanging herself, her neck broken and bruised, or putting a bullet in her temple. I wanted her to go painlessly. I didn't want her to suffer, not because of me.

I wipe the back of one hand across my eyes, smearing tears, when the door cracks open and the frizzy haired nurse from before peeks around the corner. Ray. I sit up straighter and swallow hard. He doesn't need to see me crying. I feel my jaw clench unintentionally once and fold my arms across my chest, an attempt to cover the markings still visible there.

"The cops left," He informs me, shutting the door quietly behind him though he stands awkwardly close to it, his hands folded in front of him. "Doughnut run, probably." He smiles weakly and I attempt to mimic the motion but my face refuses to work with me and I simply stare. He sighs, stepping forward. He places a single hand at the end of my bed, not touching me, but close enough to be a considered a compassionate gesture. "I'm not really supposed to get involved in patient's lives," He says. "And I could probably get in trouble for this, but I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for your loss. I don't know how it feels, so I won't say I understand, but I know it hurts and I'm sorry you have to deal with that."

I nod, the only response I can muster, and sniffle. How am I supposed to feel when I find out my own mother has killed herself? Sad, that much is sure. Should I feel guilty? Angry even? My thoughts seem to be spinning and through the vertigo, right now all I feel is hunger. As if on cue, my stomach growls and alerts the entire room to my dilemma. Ray smiles a little and focuses his attention on the tray to my left, sliding it across the tile floor toward me. "I know, shitty hospital food is not what you're craving right now, but doctor's orders." I slide the single sheet of paper under my leg, feeling the roughness as it scrapes against my skin, sensing once again just how real the suicide note is. I glance at the off-white platter, adorned with various foods. I pick up the fork and begin prodding at the contents as Ray moves around the room, straightening up and checking the monitors. The tray holds what looks like meatloaf, some yellow colored mashed potatoes, and something pale green and leafy. I ignore the meatloaf, the sight of the brownish-grey lump, even drizzled in ketchup, making me feel a little sick to my stomach. I pick up a small bite of whatever the green stuff is and nibble at it hesitantly. Spinach. Overcooked and chewy. Yum. I settle with a few selective bites of potatoes before pushing the tray away.

I look up to see Ray standing near the door again, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed against his chest. He watches me with a concerned expression and I bite my lip a little nervously under the scrutiny. I avert my own gaze quickly and shrink down lower into the sheets. 

"My shift ends in an hour," Ray finally speaks, his voice low and for a second I'm not even sure that he's talking to me. "Then I can see about getting you some clothes to wear instead of a hospital gown. And maybe some real food."

I want to ask him why he cares so much-- I'm just another patient, anyway. I'm sure he has better things to do than take care of me to the extent of smuggling me outside clothes and food-- and scream at him to stop caring, both at once, but when he turns the handle of the door and starts to leave, I find myself doing neither. "Ray," I say instead, stopping him mid-step. He turns back for a second and raises an eyebrow in question. I swallow hard and attempt a smile once again, this time succeeding a little though my voice is still a bit shaky. "Thanks. For everything."


	20. Chapter 20

Ray came back before the detectives did, much to my content, brandishing Taco Bell and clothing. It took all of my self control to refrain from jumping up and hugging Ray when he handed me a plastic bag holding jeans and a plain black Tshirt. I do offer him a grateful smile and slide out of the bed, disappearing into the attached bathroom as he settles into the single blue visitors chair.

I peel the papery gown away from my body, grimacing at my own appearance in the wide mirror. I look like shit and, just by breathing in, I can tell I smell like it as well. I reach into the shower, turning the hot water on full blast and allowing the steam to filter through the small room before stepping in. As the warm liquid pelts my skin, almost burning, I feel cold. I'm numb to everything, like suddenly my emotions switch has been turned off and I'm unable to even feel. But as I stand there, watching the water gather in droplets on my pale flesh, streaking across the scars that cluster and line my arms and thighs, I wish that it could just wash them away. And that's exactly what I try to do. I scrub at the markings, first simply rubbing and then clawing at myself, trying to make them all just disappear. I wish it would all just go away, the scars, the memories. Everything. I don't realize it for a long time, not until the shaking sobs actually turn into ragged, whimpering breaths, but I'm crying.

As the water and soap streak my body, pale white and foamy lines against the pink and red blemishes, I cave in on myself. I slink forward, doubling over and sliding my back down the cold tile until I'm in a sitting position with the water still showering me in the slick heat. I allow myself to cry, hugging my knees against my chest and wrapping my arms around them. I don't care that my wails are probably evident to Ray, who is still to my knowledge waiting for my return in the main room, or that the detectives could be listening to my every wordless sob. I simply let my body take control, my mind fading away into the black recesses I know so well.

When my cries eventually die down, my shakes subsiding and my breathing falling back into a normal pace, I stand up. My legs are a bit unsteady under my weight, but I manage to keep my balance and step out of the water, turning it off, and facing my own fogged up reflection. I'm a blur through the condensation that layers on the mirror but I make no move to wipe it off. Instead, I towel off quickly and slip into the clothes that Ray brought me. It feels good to be back in regular jeans, my ass not visible and viable to uncomfortable drafts when I stand up, and the Tshirt clings to my torso, making me feel self-conscious when I glance down and catch sight of the scars staring back at me. But it makes me feel less like a patient, like a  _victim_ , and more like a person again.

When I finally step out of the bathroom, Ray is still relaxed in the visitor's chair beside the bed, waiting. Since he's off duty right now, he's not wearing scrubs like I remember seeing before. Now, the stiff blue uniform is replaced with loose jeans, a faded grey color, and a vintage looking Joy Division shirt.

He looks when I come in, sliding back into the bed and casting my eyes downward. I know he had to have heard me crying in the shower, it was impossible to have not, but he doesn't say anything about it, for which I'm grateful. Instead, he simply sits up straighter and offers me a soft smile, handing me another plastic bag. This one has the food. I dive in and Ray sits back in his chair, watching me with an amused look on his sharp features. I would normally argue-- I don't want someone studying me while I'm pigging out-- but right now I don't really give two fucks. My hunger is more important and I kind of like having his company, even if most of it is in silence.

Halfway through devouring my third burrito, Ray finally speaks. "What was it like?" He wonders, sounding genuinely curious.

I glance up at him and raise an eyebrow. "What was what like?" I ask around a bite.

"Being in a coma," He elaborates. "I've worked here for two years now and I've seen a few people going in and out of comatose states, whether by choice or not, but I've never been able to ask what it's like." He shrugs limply and averts his eyes nervously, like he's just asked me the most embarrassing question in the world.

I laugh softly to let him know I'm not offended by his curiosity. If the roles were reversed, I would probably be asking the same thing. But when I open my mouth to answer, suddenly my entire mind just shuts down. I try to recall what it was actually like, being in an unconscious state for twelve days, but everything seems blurry and unclear. I remember the darkness, surrounding me like a blanket and suffocating, but other than that, my mind seems to have been wiped clean.

I don't remember anything.

Finally, I let out a sigh instead of real words and reply with my own shrug. "I don't really remember anything about it," I admit.

"Nothing?" Ray asks, seeming surprised by my answer.

I shake my head once, taking another bite and swallowing before continuing. "The last thing I honestly recall is school, right before the pep rally. I went into the bathroom and took the pills and then..." I furrow my brows, trying to revive the memory of the twelve days spent inside my own head. "Then waking up here."

And then something comes back and I sit up straighter, Ray mimicking my movement, almost unintentionally. "When I woke up, I remember remembering." I stare down at the white sheets that lay over my crossed legs, trying to sort through some of my thoughts, attempting to organize the chaos I feel in my mind. I shake my head again as if the physical motion will put some order to it. "But I don't remember what I remembered."

And now I sound crazy. Well done, Frank.

Ray watches me with a curious gaze, trying to understand what I'm saying when, in all reality, even I'm not sure what I'm saying. I sigh, my head starting to hurt, and settle back into the pillows with yet another shrug, bringing the last bit of the burrito to my lips, saying, "Forget it. I don't remember," before taking another bite. 


	21. Chapter 21

Bright lights flicker all around me, blinding me with a piercing blue color. I cringe away instinctively, my breathing picking up pace and my heart skipping a beat as my eyes scan the darkness in scared, frantic movements. I take a small step back, seeing nothing around but the light and dark, the blinding flashes contrasting heavily with the surrounding black air.

_Where am I?_

A sour flavor seems to settle on my tongue, bitter and harsh and making my mouth feel dry. I swallow hard once, twice, the thick saliva seeming to scrape my throat on the way down, iron instantly mixing with the green.

_Green_.

I take another step backward, this time stumbling over something and falling. I scramble back in the dark, taking vague notice that the ground is a smooth surface against the palms of my hands. Another burst of light illuminates the encompassing area once more and I catch a glimpse of whatever it is that I tripped over. Just as quick as the light shone, my breathing stops completely and panic sets in the pit of my stomach.

A body is strewn out on the hard ground, a boy no older than fourteen. His lanky figure is stretched out, his chest pressed flat against the black shadows of the floor while his arms are twisted up at an awkward angle, one elbow straight up while the other arm is raised out horizontally above his head. His light brown hair hangs in scraggly locks across his face and down to the bottom of his chin. Through the flickering bursts of burning blue light, I can make out the distinct marks on his neck. Bruises, deep purple in color, mixed with the raw red skin where the rope once held his slim body above the ground. His eyes are framed with black glasses, their hazel shimmering in the gleam, wide and staring directly at me.

I feel my mouth open, the panic swallowing me whole as I begin screaming at the top of my battered lungs...

I shoot upright in bed, a thin layer of sweat beading on my forehead and dampening the sheets that tangle around my legs. My breathing is coming in short gasps and the monitor to my right is alerting me to the sudden increase in my heartbeat, an effect of the night terror.

_It was just a dream_... I repeat the words to myself, even biting down hard enough on my lip to draw blood, needing to feel the pain to know it's true. _It was just a dream_...

Then how the hell did it feel so real? The panic, the darkness, it all felt so  _real_. But more than that, it felt familiar. It didn't make sense to me, but there was a sense of nostalgia that came with seeing the younger boy's broken and dead body. His face... God, his face, warped with such pleading horror and desperation, seemed familiar. 

I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger, squeezing my eyes shut only to flinch away from the images that assault me. With my eyes closed, I see him. The bruises, the lifelessness, the blank stare,  _those eyes_. It haunts me and I find myself glancing nervously around the room, searching the shadows for any sign of the nightmarish figure.

The only sound in the empty space is the uneven rise and fall of my chest, my breathing coming in short pants, and the consistent beeping of the heart monitor. After only a few seconds, the beeping becomes too loud in my ears and I rip the white clippy thingy away from my finger, the monitor flat-lining instead. I pull my legs up to my chest and let my head fall forward onto my knees just as the heavy wooden door is pushed open, light flooding into the room. I don't bother to look up to see the nurse I know will be standing there. Amy I think is her name; The nurse that took over when Ray's shift ended.

I don't like her. I don't know why, really-- she seems nice enough-- but every time she comes in to check on me, I feel a ball of worry knotting in my stomach and making my jaw clench. Now, she stands in the doorway, watching me with displeasure, one hand on her hip. "Frank," She scolds as she comes to my bedside. She flicks on the lamp that sits to my left, illuminating the shadowed corners of the room and actually making me feel a little bit better. But when she finds the finger clamp and reaches out to grab my hand, I cringe away from her, wrapping my arms around my chest instead. Amy sighs. "Frank, this is the third time you've taken the heart monitor off. We need to keep you hooked up, at least for the night."

I shake my head once, a quick jerky movement and scoot away, putting myself at the edge of the mattress.

Amy sighs again, crossing her arms and watching me intently. I feel like a specimen under a microscope. There's constantly a nurse or doctor coming in to check on me, making sure I'm okay, asking if I need anything. I think they feel bad for me and it pisses me off. I don't want their pity. I know they feel bad for me because they all know what happened; I'm the kid who tried to kill himself. A few of them even know the full story, about my mother's suicide and why the detectives are interested in me, and that just irritates me even more. Isn't there a such thing as privacy? But I know the real reason why they want me to keep the heart monitor on; They're afraid that I'll try to kill myself again.

I focus my gaze on the floor, the grey tiles darkened by the lack of light. With a quick glance at the hanging wall clock, I see it's about six in the morning. The sun should be rising soon and I absently wonder if they'll let me open the blinds to see outside. Even if they don't, I'm sure Ray will let me see out. I've never been one for loving nature all that much, but I long to see the sun. It's something that seems obligatory after twelve days of darkness, encompassed by nothing but the black that haunts my own mind. I want to see the sun chasing away the shadows, the nightmares, the lack of memory.

I keep my eyes averted, even when I can sense Amy getting annoyed by my insubordination. I bite my lip once, cursing myself because I know that it is probably a stupid idea, but the pounding in my skull makes me breathe in once and ask anyway, my voice void of emotion. "What's green?"

There's a long minute of silence and for a second I think that maybe she didn't hear me. But when I glance up at her through my lashes, she's watching me with a confused expression. "What do you mean?" She looks concerned, in all honesty, and I almost feel bad for her. She didn't bargain for this. It wasn't her idea to come to work and be asked puzzling questions by a suicidal teenager. But now that it's in my head, the flavor and the color, I need to know what it means.

_Tastes like green..._

The thought seems so minute but it tickles a part of my brain that makes me want to delve deeper into the baffling statement. What is the green? I want to know about the body, too-- who was it? Why was I seeing him in my nightmares? Was he even real?-- but I figure that green is the simpler mystery right at this moment.

I swallow hard and look up at Amy. I still want to be as far away from her as possible, but I also want answers. "What tastes like green?"

Amy looks terrified. The emotions playing across her dark skin range from concern to horror to curiosity and she looks as if she wants to flee from the room and get me mental treatment. Of course, I sound crazy, and that's exactly what she thinks when she narrows her wide eyes sympathetically. "Frank, do you feel alright? I think maybe the medication has had some effect on your brain--"

I cut her off by shaking my head and fighting the urge to roll my eyes. Okay, think in simple-- less crazy-- terms. I open my mouth a few times before finally sputtering out a full sentence. "I just mean... What food is green?"

Amy doesn't look relieved in the slightest so I focus all of my attention on her, trying to seem genuinely curious. The last thing I want is for her to think I've lost my mind. "Umm..." She shrugs, looking around the room helplessly before sighing. "What kind of food?" She finally asks.

I purse my lips and shrug, honestly having no idea.  _Tastes like green_... I don't even know if I'm on the right path here, let alone specifics. So I smile slightly. "Any."

"Well..." She thinks for a moment, visibly trying to make herself relax. "Lettuce. Spinach. Broccoli."

I shake my head. Those aren't right. "Bitter," I say. "Sour, even."

Amy bites her lip and her eyes flit around the room, her hands fumbling with the heart rate monitor, now long forgotten. "Kiwi. Apples. Skittles. Grapes. Olives--"

"Wait," I interrupt and something inside of me clicks. "Go back."

Amy watches me curiously and rethinks her last few words. "Kiwi?" She suggests. I shake my head no. "Apples. Skittles."

"There." I nod and sit up straighter in the bed. "That's it."

Amy nods slowly, not understanding what I'm finally realizing. "Skittles can be green," She agrees. "They have the sour apple flavor."

I feel a proud smile stretch across my face as a light bulb goes off in my head. Skittles. Skittles taste like green! Wait... Why am I tasting Skittles in my dream? My smile falters and Amy looks at me with concern once again. "Umm..." I say quickly. "I just... I want Skittles. Can you call Ray for me? And tell him. When he comes in to work, I want him to bring me Skittles."


	22. Chapter 22

"So basically what you're saying is that, while you were in a coma, you were visited by some dead kid who gave you green apple Skittles as some sort of omen but you have no idea what they mean."

Ray, who lounges in the visitors chair to my right with an unopened bag of Skittles in his lap, arches a single brow. His eyes are narrowed in concentration, taking in the story that I've presented to him and the creases in his forehead show me evidently that he's having a hard time believing me.

I nod fervently, verifying his recount of the tale. He shifts in the chair, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. I hear the crinkle the wrapper of the Skittles makes with the movement and the heavy breath intake and release that leaves him. He's dressed once again in pale blue scrubs, the stiff fabric folding and wrinkling with the gesture and the bottoms rise slightly to show off the tops of his pure white tennis shoes.

I find myself averting my gaze and studying the laces that double-knot neatly atop the shoes, just barely reaching the scuffed tile floor. "You don't believe me," I state simply.

When Ray finally came in this morning after a very restless night-- for me, at least-- bearing the Skittles I had asked him to bring, he refused to give me the small package until I told him  _why_  I had awoken at 3AM and played twenty questions with the nurse that came to check on me. So I told him the truth. Looking back on that choice now, I realize I probably should have lied and made up some bullshit excuse as to why I wanted the candy. But I had blanked. I  _needed_  to tell somebody the truth, about the haunting nightmare, the taste of green, the boy with glasses, and all of the memories that seemed to flood with seeing these things. There were just jumbled images and a few perplexing phrases but it seemed to hit some nerve in my head and  _I had to find out what it all meant._  That's why I told Ray the truth. Maybe he'll be able to help me figure it all out.

Ray shakes his head quickly, biting down on his lip and running a hand through his thick hair. "I don't know what I believe." He admits, shrugging.

"Then you think I'm crazy."

"I don't think you're crazy." His voice is steady and for a second I almost believe him.

But I just roll my eyes and finally meet his unmoving gaze. "Even _I_  think I'm crazy." I let out a laugh which, to my own ears, sounds slightly maniacal. "I'm having nightmares about some random dead kid. I'm tasting  _colors_. Images of a skeleton keep flashing through my mind. I am fucking crazy."

"Okay," Ray holds out his hand as if he's physically handing me the answer to why I'm suddenly questioning my own sanity. "Think rationally." I snort, which earns me a disapproving look from Ray. But, come on-- Rationality was thrown out the window when I woke up and said ' _What tastes like green?'_  But Ray just continues, his voice is suffused with an authority and maturity that I hadn't heard from him before and the tone makes me focus on his words. "Maybe you know the kid. Maybe that's why you keep seeing him."

I shake my head, the image of the twisted body coming to mind once again. "Vaguely, maybe?" I allow, though it still comes out sounding like a question. "His eyes. I've seen those eyes before. But the glasses and the body--" I shake my head again, those aspects seeming to be blurry. "No. I don't think I know him."

"Then think about his death," Ray proceeds, turning to a different facet of the night terror. "You said he had rope burns, right? Do you know of anyone that hung himself?"

I contemplate this for a second and it seems to scratch at the back of my mind, hitting something so vague and distant that it almost isn't there. "Maybe."  _Dammit_. With all of these unsure answers, I'm never going to learn anything. I tilt my head to one side, chewing absently on the inside of my cheek as I look to Ray, posing my own question. "What about the skeleton I keep seeing? Do you think it's like... I don't know. A metaphor for the dead kid?"

Ray nods slowly. "That would make sense, I suppose. But then that still leaves us wondering who the dead kid is. Do you remember anything else?"

"I remember a name," I admit.

Ray rolls his eyes dramatically and shifts forward in his seat. "Well that probably would have been useful to know before." I can tell he's anxious for the new information and I smile to myself. Ray actually wants to help me. It's a new feeling to me, having someone who wants to be there for me while everyone else just turned their back.

"Well, I don't remember it fully," I say, his excitement fading only a bit. "I think it starts with an M. Mitchell or Marshall. I don't know. Something like that." My train of thought then flies off the rails and I turn in the hospital bed to face Ray full on. "Did I ever have any visitors?"

Ray's eyebrows knit together at the sudden inquisition but he he fumbles for a response regardless. "Umm... Yeah, there was one kid that came in a few times."

I sit up straighter, perking up to the thought of someone actually visiting me. "My mom left something in her note," I say, pulling the folded letter from it's place beneath my pillow. I quickly unfold it, the creases beginning to abate with the constant use. I've read and reread this letter so many times, it may seem sadistic but I needed to remember my mother's final words, even if they were written. I scan the scribbled writing until I find the part I'm looking for, handing it over to an anxious looking Ray and jabbing a finger at the section before grinning. "She mentioned that someone came to visit me. He sang to me and some of the phrases I remember sound like song lyrics. What if it was the dead kid? What if he came in to see me?"

Ray looks at me with a concerned expression. "You think a dead body wandered in here to serenade you while you were in a coma?"

_Okay, Ray. Now who sounds crazy?_

I shake my head, tsking my disapproval for how he put those things together. "What if he's not dead? I don't know why I'm seeing him dead, but what if he's not? What if he's the one that's been singing to me?" My eyes widen at the thought of possibly discovering who has been haunting my dreams and assaulting my memory and I feel my lips stretch into a smile. I bounce slightly on the mattress as Ray reads over the letter again. "What was his name?" I wonder. "The person who came to see me."

Ray shrugs, looking at a loss for words. "I didn't talk to him," He admits. "He didn't come very often while I was working and when I did see him, I never asked a name."

My face falls and my excited bouncing ceases. Disappointment settles in and I look to the ground, the tips of my bare toes just barely grazing the tile. My hands involuntarily knot in the sheets beneath me and a frown creases my forehead. Great. I've come this far, remembering things that are harassing my mentality, only to hit a dead end. I still have no idea who came to me, who the dead kid is that's been making an appearance in my nightmares. I have nothing.

"Well..." The hesitation and anticipation that seems evident in Ray's voice makes me shift my gaze back to his dark hazel eyes. He chews anxiously on his lip, contemplation clear on his features as he taps his fingers on his pale blue pants.

"What?" I prompt, unnerved by the silence that follows his initial ' _Well...'_

He looks up at me and seems to tense up a little as if he forgot completely that I was there. "If he came to see you, he had to sign in, right?"

I nod slowly, not understanding where he's going with this. "Yes. But those aren't exactly public records. I can't just walk in there and ask to see them."

"No," Ray agrees. "But I can."

My eyes widen a bit at the man sitting across from me. "Ray, I couldn't ask you to do that." I shake my head though the thought of actually learning a name entices me.  _I need to know_. But if he got caught, he could lose his job. I couldn't let him get in that much trouble for me.

"You're not asking me," Ray says simply. I open my mouth to argue again, but the look that he shoots me makes me shut up almost as fast as he hurries on. "Look, I want to know, too. You told me about the nightmares and the skeleton and all that shit. Besides, I brought you Skittles. I'm involved now."

He tosses me the still unopened bag of candies as if to emphasize his point but I can do nothing more than sit there, mouth agape, as he stands up. "I'll be back with the log after my shift. In the meantime, the detectives want to talk to you."

"How do you know that?" I wonder. Ray has been in here with me for the past hour and not one person has come to tell me that the detectives were here.

Ray grins as he stops at the door. "They're waiting in the lobby right now. I told them I had to check up on you before they could come in." And then he pushes the door open and disappears out of the room.


	23. Chapter 23

As soon as the door shuts behind Ray, I slide out of the bed. The pale tile is cold against the bare skin of my feet and I feel a shiver run through me. I pad my way across the small room into the attached bathroom, closing and locking the door after me. Turning on the cold water, I let it run over my cupped hands, then submerge my face. A chill shoots through me at the icy contact but I need to feel it. It clears my head immediately, pushing aside the nightmares and memories and just focusing on the biting touch.

And then something else shoots through me.

Memories or effects of my self-proclaimed insanity, I'm not sure which, but it's overwhelming.

It feels like I'm drowning in the water I still have cupped in my hand, my face buried in the freezing liquid, but I can't make myself move. My limbs feel numb and my chest paralyzed. It doesn't even feel like I'm breathing anymore, but I'm not sure I want to. Some small part of my brain is telling me that if I breathe in right now, I'm going to inhale a lung-full of water. Another part is beginning to panic, telling me that if I don't breathe, I'll run out of oxygen and pass out.

But mostly, my mind is filled with an image.

His face.

I can't make out the distinct features, covered heavily in white and black face paint to make the mask of a skeleton. The pieces I can see seem blurred and distant and yet so familiar and enticing. Words echo out in my head though his mouth never opens and my eyes never leave the piercing hazel that seem almost void of emotions.

_I'll be right beside you._

_I'll always be right here_. 

I gasp, sucking in a mix of water and air, finally taking control of my body once again. I start choking, coughing up the liquid that I just inhaled and trying to calm my sudden shaking. The water drops from my hands back into the sink, swirling and disappearing down the drain, leaving me staring at the off-white porcelain. My chest aches painfully as I attempt to clear my lungs of the unwanted water and get a full breath instead.

A thundering knock at the bathroom door does not help and I jump in surprise, just barely containing a reflexive shriek. "Frank?" A voice sounds from the other side, a hint of concern lacing the words. "Are you alright?"

I recall the voice as belonging to one of the detectives but I'm not sure which, nor do I actually care. I'm more focused on the memories, the words that race through my mind at an alarming speed. What if I forget? What if, by the time Ray comes back, I forget what I've just remembered?

"Frank?"

I cough again and try as hard as I can to make my voice sound normal. "I'm fine." Oh great, it sounds like I've just swallowed a chainsaw. My throat feels raw and dry, strange after all of the water I just inhaled, and my words come out scratchy. "I'll be out in a second."

The voice doesn't reply and I think I hear footsteps moving in the opposite direction, but it's hard to hear anything over the pounding in my own ears. I repeat in my head what I've just heard from the memory, not willing to lose any detail, and it sounds almost like a mantra.

When I finally get my breathing under control, I unlock the door and move nervously into the main room. I don't look at the detectives I see standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor, just make my way across the floor to the bed. When I'm seated somewhat comfortably in the center, my legs crossed on top of the sheets and my arms resting on jeans, I look up.

No one speaks, the detectives watching me with an uneasy expression. I almost cringe against the scrutiny, feeling small under their intense gaze. But instead I just point to the blonde officer who clutches a thin pad of blank white paper in his hand, probably ready to take notes on every single thing I say. "Can I use your pen?"

The older men share a curious look before the mustached detective nods a go-ahead motion and the younger male steps forward. He holds out the black pen and I force a smile of gratitude. Pulling off the cap, I hear one of them ask, "Do you want paper?" but I'm already scribbling the two words down on the palm of my hand. When I'm finished, I smile, pleased with myself, and hand the pen back. The younger man, Detective Braddock is his name, I think, raises an eyebrow but says nothing. He turns to Francis, the mustached officer that steps forward and takes a seat in the visitors chair on the side of my bed.

"We didn't get much time to talk last time," The detective says and then stops, probably wanting me to say something. I don't acknowledge him really, much beyond the way I stare at him. He shifts uncomfortably and clears his throat. "About where you would go once you're released."

"I want to go home." It's a simple enough request, but the older man looks at me with a sad smile, shaking his head slightly.

"You know we can't let you do that, Frank." He absently strokes a hand through his facial hair, concentration and pity creasing his forehead. "You're only sixteen. You're a minor and both of your parents are..." His words cut off immediately and he glances at me like he's said something wrong, something that might make me snap and go crazy.

"Dead," I offer up the word and he looks somewhat surprised by my straightforwardness. "You can say it. It's not a bad word. My parents are dead."

Detective Francis nods, shifting once again and looking like he would rather be anywhere else but here. But this is his job and he knows what he needs to say. "You have no legal guardians, Frank, and we, by law, have no choice than to have you admitted into the system."

"I could stay with someone else." Even as I say it, I know it's not really a possibility. Who would I stay with? It's not like I have any friends. The closest thing I have to a friend is Ray and I can't ask him to take me in. He's doing enough for me as it is. Asking him to become my freaking chaperone is too much.

Francis sees this, too, and sighs softly. "There's a woman who lives on the outskirts of Belleville," He says, choosing to ignore my previous statement rather than arguing with it. "Her name is Beatrice Webb. She runs a home for kids who have nowhere else to go."

"An orphanage?" I wonder aloud. Of course, I was seventeen. Nobody would want to foster someone that old.

Francis shrugs loosely and rolls his head in a yes and no motion. "Kind of. It's called a group home. She'll offer you a place to stay, food, all of the necessities. It's much less strict than an orphanage and smaller. We asked her to keep a close eye on you--"

"In case I try to kill myself again." I interrupt and roll my eyes. Everybody's so damn worried all of a sudden.

This time, Francis' gesture is a definite nod. "Yes. But there will be other kids living there, too. Some your age, some younger." I don't reply and grind my teeth together. I don't want to go. I want to go back to my house, back to my mom, back before everything in my life turned to shit. But I know that's not possible. "This will be good for you, Frank," Francis promises quietly before hefting himself to his feet and turning to his partner. "I'll speak with your doctor and get the arrangements made. If things go as planned, you could get discharged as soon as tomorrow."

My eyes shoot open and I feel that familiar panic swelling in me again. "Tomorrow?" I ask, incredulous. It's too soon. I still have so much to figure out. I can't leave yet. But I also can't tell any of that to the officers, so when Francis nods and offers a small smile, I fight to control my racing heart and, as soon as the door is shut behind them, I'm lurching forward off of the bed. I barely make it to the bathroom, not bothering or having time to close the door behind me, before hunching over in front of the toilet and heaving the contents of my stomach out.

I stay bent over the porcelain bowl for a long time, my chest beginning to ache from where it's pressed to the object as well as the coughing hacks that escape me. My breathing is rugged and my forehead beads with sweat, but I can't seem to make myself move, even when I hear Ray's startled voice from the doorway, feeling him kneel next to me a moment later.

"Frank? What happened?" Concern laces his words and his hand is moving in calming circular patterns on my back. I spit into the bowl once before staggering to my feet, with the help of Ray. I don't reply until I'm hunched over the sink once again, rinsing my mouth out with water. 

"I remembered something else," I say. My voice still feels overused and my throat burns, but I swallow hard and force the words forward. I stick out my hand so Ray can see the scribbled words there, repeating them once again. "Mikey Way."


	24. Chapter 24

Mikey Way.

 _Mikey_.

 _Way_.

The two words seemed to be combining as one, even as I slowed them down, enunciating each individual syllable and pausing between. They seem too heavy on my tongue, weighing it down, which is when I resort to repeating the name in my head. My bare feet scuff the cool tile, wearing an invisible pattern into the off-white floor. I can see the sun setting on the horizon, sending ripples of pale yellow and pink filtering throughout the room and illuminating the otherwise dark atmosphere.

"Who is Mikey Way?" As the words fall, almost silently from my lips, I have the strangest sense of deja vu. Like I've walked this line before, spoken these words, contemplated these thoughts.

I sigh heavily, running a hand over my face and closing my eyes. It's painful in a way, not being able to recall simple, mundane things. It feels like there's a section of my brain that's missing. No, not missing.  _Hiding_. I know it's there, on the tip of my tongue, but I can't find it.

I don't notice when the sun finally disappears behind the various New Jersey buildings, fading off in the distance and casting dark shadows across the floor. My feet seem to move by their own will, pushing me to pace the same straight line that I've been walking for what must have been hours. My mind feels exhausted and overactive at the same time, repeating what I only half remembered and willing myself profusely to recall the rest.

_Hiding._

Perhaps I can't find the right memories because I'm looking in the wrong places. Maybe I'm looking for the wrong  _things_. 

"Dude, what are you doing in the dark?" The voice registers only a second before the burning overhead light flickers on. I flinch against the fluorescence, the white light actually hurting my eyes and I raise a hand to cover them, letting out a slight groan.

"I was busy," Is my only vague response as I squint against the artificial light and move somewhat mechanically to the bed. I sit down on the rough sheets and cross my legs, Ray coming farther into the room and shutting the door behind him.

"You were too busy to turn on the light?" He scrambles onto the mattress across from me, one leg bent in front of him while the other dangles off the side of the bed, and drops a plastic bag on the blanket between us. I don't ask what's in the bag, just nod my response to his previous question. "And what were you busy with?"

"Trying to remember." The statement is so simple and yet so very complex at the same time and Ray just bobs his head in understanding. He looks down at the baggage and starts unloading the stash. He hands me a stack of paper and I flip through a few pages, cocking an eyebrow. "What's this?"

"The visitors log," Ray states and runs a hand through his hair. My eyes promptly widen as I glance back at the sheets. There has to be at least a hundred pages here and each page indicates thirty names per sheet. "I didn't know exactly what I was looking for," He explains and continues unpacking the bag. "So I got everything. That's the log for every day you were in a coma. They make visitors sign in at the main desk and then point them in the right direction."

A huff of breath leaves my chest in the form of an incredulous laugh. Glancing down at the log, I see names, dates, and times. No floor numbers, no patient names. "So this is a list of every single person who visited someone at the hospital in the last two weeks."

"Yep."

I sigh, already feeling exhausted. "This is going to take all night."

Pulling out a can of Monster, he hands it over to me, producing one for himself as well. "That's why I brought these." He shrugs, shuffling through a few of the log sheets. "And besides; At least we have something to go on now. We know who we're looking for."

Another breath escapes me, a mixture of a sigh and a groan. "Mikey fuckin' Way."

We make a pile of papers in the center of the bed, each starting with one and picking up another when we find nothing. Paper falls to the ground in loose leaves when deemed useless, replaced with another. My eyes start to hurt after awhile, the words becoming blurry and out of focus. I down the energy drink before even half of the stack has dispersed and find myself itching to move.

As I pace the tile floor, my eyes skimming over every name, Ray fidgets on the bed. First, he lays back, only staying there for a few minutes before joining me and pacing at an adjacent angle. Soon, he's sprawled out in the visitors chair and I've taken up refuge on the bed, my feet propped up against the headboard while my head hangs back over the edge. When that makes me light-headed, I quickly go back to pacing.

The names all seem to blur together, my mind mistaking I's for L's and at one point, I think I see a nine in the middle of a word. It's frustrating, to say the least, and to no avail.

Eventually, Ray and I both pass out, waking up only when I hear the door creak open. I jump up almost immediately when even the slight sound echoes throughout the silence and hit Ray's knee. His neck is craned back at an awkward angle, mouth fallen open and a slight snore escaping his mouth. A few papers are still tight in his grasp while the others litter the bed and floor.

When I see Detective Francis standing in the doorway, Ray and I both hurry to shuffle the papers into messy stacks. I shove the sheets into Ray's hands as he stuffs them into his bag, hiding all evidence from view, as if the officer didn't see them already.

He pays no mind to that, though, as he saunters into the room, confidence radiating through his black suit and filling the room. "Mr. Toro," Francis says, turning to Ray and eyeing his casual wear as opposed to the scrubs he's always dressed in. "I thought you were a day nurse."

"I am," Ray says, nodding and looking like a deer caught in headlights. He glances at me. "I just wanted to check up on Frank and make sure he was alright. We fell asleep and..." His words trail off awkwardly as he fidgets with the handle of the plastic bag he's holding.

Detective Francis nods and turns his gaze on me. "Frank. How are you doing?"

I swallow hard and shrug, not really sure how to reply. "Okay, I guess."  _Lie_. I'm not okay. I'm tired and my head hurts. I feel sort of hungover, but without the alcoholic influence. Casting a quick glance in Ray's direction, I see he probably feels the same way. His skin is paler than usual and his eyes only look slightly focused. I almost feel guilty for keeping him awake all last night.

Almost.

But most of my guilt is spent on making him steal the copies of the visitors log in the first place. He risked his job and for what? Countless sheets of paper and we found nothing. No Mikey Way visited the hospital during those two weeks that I was unconscious and we were no closer to discovering who the skeleton boy in my memories was.

Detective Francis clears his throat and I jump slightly, realizing that I've zoned out and was watching the dead space between us. "Huh, what?"

Francis chuckles softly and shakes his head. "I said, you may be pleased to know that Officer Braddock is clearing up some paperwork and then we'll be able to get you checked out of this place."

I avert my gaze, looking to Ray who looks somewhat saddened by the news, watching me with an empathetic frown. He tries to smile but the gesture fails and he just grimaces. I bite down on my lip and take a deep breath. I know I don't have a choice; I have to go with them. I have nowhere else to go. I'm homeless. I'm a seventeen year old kid who lost his mom and killed his dad. I'm an orphan. I force myself to meet the detective's eyes and nod. "When do we leave?"

"Just another hour or so." The words make my heart sink as I realize I have less time than I thought. One hour. Sixty minutes left in this hospital, the room I've dreaded and hated so much that was now my only sanctuary.

I nod again, this motion giving the detective leave as he turns on his heels and exits the room, leaving Ray and I alone. There's a small silence hanging in the air, surrounding us with the tension and terror. My mind is racing with the thoughts. It takes everything I have to hold in the tears I can already feel stinging my eyes and look up at Ray. "I still need your help."

Ray laughs and rolls his eyes half-heartedly. "How did I not see that coming?" But the remark is just for show and I can tell he's already decided that he's going to help before he even asks, "What now?"

"I need Google and a cup of coffee," I say. "Coffee first."

•••

Within only ten minutes, Ray and I are both positioned side by side on the uncomfortable mattress, staring at the small screen of his iPhone. I cradle the coffee in my hands, letting the warmth swarm through me at the same pace the caffeine does. I swallow hard, the usually sweet liquid tasting too bitter on my tongue and leaving a bad taste in my mouth, only causing me to gulp down more of the steaming drink.

"I'm not finding anything." Ray sighs, throwing up the hand that isn't holding the cell. "It's all astronomical shit."

I glance at the screen over his shoulder and laugh. "That's because you typed Milky Way instead of  _Mikey Way_."

"Oh." His shoulders slump forward and he fixes the typo.

When I suggested that we should Google search the name that's been haunting my dreams and memories, Ray thought it was a ridiculous idea; No way could we find some random kid, who's existence was still in question, in literally thousands of internet results in less than an hours time. Of course, that was before I explained to him my thoughts; If this Mikey Way is really dead, maybe there's some news articles on him or at least something useful that Google can lead me to.

Ray scrolls through the results, mumbling a few random words or phrases here and there that bare no meaning to me. Eventually, he groans again. "There's nothing," He says. "All of this random crap, but no suicides and no Mikey Way."

I chew on my bottom lip for a second, contemplating a few things. I knew this was a stretch, but I was hoping that the internet could lead me somewhere, give me some sort of clue. I stick out my hand and wiggle the fingers. Ray sighs and hands the phone over, taking my coffee as I shove it forward as well. I quickly add the word  _Belleville_ at the end of the search and, taking a breath, hit the 'I'm Feeling Lucky' button.

Almost immediately, a virtual news article is loading across the small screen.

The headline;  _Teenager Found Dead In New Jersey Home_.

I shift on the mattress, scrambling to my knees and folding my legs under me. I nearly spill the coffee when I clutch onto Ray's arm and skim the page. "I think I found it!"

I move my fingers against the touch screen, zooming in on the words and supplied photo. The image is taken from behind yellow police tape and depicts nothing but a gurney being pulled by two uniformed paramedics toward the back of a waiting ambulance. The gurney is covered with a sheet.

" _Fourteen year old, Micheal Way, was found this morning by his brother in their Belleville home_ ," I read aloud, getting more excited by the second. " _Way's brother, fifteen, came home early from school to find his younger sibling hanging by noose in their shared room. Details are not yet being released, but so far our insiders are guessing this was another tragic act of suicide striking today's youth_."

I let out a shaky breath and glance at Ray who looks just as stunned as I feel. He swallows hard and blinks a few times, trying to find words. "You were right," He finally says. "That kid is real. But..." He shakes his head and turns the phone toward him. "When was that written?"

"Uhh..." I scroll up on the page a bit, scanning for a publishing date. "March twenty-second. Three years ago." The room is silent for a long time, the screen fading to black but I'm not reading it anymore.

Three years ago, I was fourteen.

I scroll down a bit more, not bothering to focus on the words. The article is just talking about a candlelight vigil that was set to be held and I wasn't interested in events I'd already missed. I was more intent on the second photo supplied. This photo, unlike the first, showed the deceased boy. It looked to be a school photo, his bright hazel eyes framed behind black and white rimmed glasses while his mouth was pressed into a thin line, showing no emotion whatsoever. Though he was obviously alive in the image, he already looked dead.

The same boy from my nightmare.

_"The weird kid with glasses?"_

The voice sounds so stark, I almost think it's real. For a split second, the memory resounds through the walls of my mind and I almost believe it's actually there before realizing it's just a thought.

_"How did he do it?"_

_"Hung himself. I heard his brother was the one that found him_."

I gasp, a physical reaction to the memories that seem to hit me like bricks. Involuntarily, I find myself reaching out to wrap a hand around Ray's wrist, needing to feel something real, needing to know that the voices are just a memory. "I remember something." I manage between pants for breath, my lungs not seeming to function properly anymore.

"From when you were comatose?" Ray asks, but I shake my head.

"Before that," I swallow hard, fighting against the lacking breaths before finally getting enough oxygen to relay the new information. "A few years ago, at school." I shake my hands in front of me, somehow gesturing my words for Ray to understand. "I remember these girls talking in class about some kid that had killed himself. They were talking about  _him_. They were talking about Mikey." Realization hits me then and I look up, wide-eyed, at Ray. "That's how I know him. I went to school with Mikey Way."

Ray's shaking his head, looking more confused with each passing moment. "Is that is?" He wonders. "That's all you remember?"

I bite down on my lip again.  _Fourteen year old Frank..._

That was not a good time in my life. Just one year previous, I had killed my dad. When I was fourteen, I was drinking away the misery and burying myself in parties. If Mikey wasn't part of the in-crowd, odds are I never even spoke to him. If I had, the memories were a drunken haze by this point and no use to me now.

Ray shifts on the bed, turning to face me and narrowing his eyes in concentration. "So why is this random kid haunting your memories. It's like a mental game of hide and seek and he's fucking winning."

" _Hiding_..." The word is mumbled and I don't even realize I've spoken it until Ray asks me what I said. I repeat myself louder, this time adding an explanation. "Hiding," I say. "What if Mikey isn't the memory I'm looking for? What if the memory I'm really searching for is hiding  _behind_  Mikey?"

Ray shakes his head again. "What do you mean?"

"Obviously Mikey isn't the boy who's been visiting me," I raise my arms in wild gestures, feeling the excitement build up within me, being so close to finding who might be the skeleton boy. My angel. "But I'm remembering him for a reason. What if remembering Mikey could help me remember everything else?"

Ray is nodding this time, letting my words settle in and beginning to make sense. "Then the only to see what's hiding behind Mikey is to go through him. You need to remember Mikey Way."

It's not much, in all honesty, but this revelation makes my heart beat faster and my palms sweat. This could be it. This could be everything that I've been looking for; I'll finally discover who the skeleton boy is, who has been singing to me.

But my heart sinks when the door swings open and Detective Francis smiles from the hall. "Ready to go, Frank?"


	25. Chapter 25

"You could punch me really hard in the face," I suggest. "Or throw me out of the window." I actually glance outside, measuring the distance to the ground. A three story fall might not kill me-- Maybe break my legs or give me a concussion, but not necessarily death. 

Ray rolls his eyes and pulls me away from the closed window. "I am not pushing you out the window."

I frown, but figure that's probably best. Even if the distance doesn't kill me, the concrete pavement at the bottom might. "Then punch me. Or stab me with a fork."

Ray folds his arms across his chest and glares at me. "I took care of your unconscious ass for two weeks," He says. "My job is done."

I bite down on my lip and look away, trying not let it show how sad I actually was to be leaving this place. I figured that if I somehow ended up getting hurt again, I could stay longer. Of course, Ray wasn't so keen on that idea and was opposed to attempted murder and assault, even if I was more than willing to have my physical health put in jeopardy.

I cross my arms as well and look down at my Converse, my bare feet no longer visible. There's a dark spot where the tile is scuffed and I focus on prodding the shadowed area with the toe of my shoe. The plastic bag crinkles in my grasp as I shift it's weight against my leg. My jeans, T-shirt, and the visitors logs, which I convinced Ray to let me keep, are the only contents. My cell phone was confiscated by Detective Braddock, as it could " _possibly have an effect on my recovery_." I didn't argue, knowing that I rarely used the device anyway and, with my mother gone, there was no one to pay the bill.

I look back up at Ray when I hear the officers outside the room and sigh. "I guess I'm leaving then."

Ray bobs his head a little in agreement. "Promise me you won't come back." He nudges my foot with his and smiles. "Not on a gurney, at least. Walking in on your own two legs to say  _hi_  would be acceptable, though."

I laugh and nod. I find myself averting my gaze again, though I try so hard to look at him. Goodbye's always sucked. I hated this part. Apparently Ray felt the same way because when Detective Francis peers into the room, informing me that we're free to leave, there's no heartfelt farewell. No hugging or crying or even a real goodbye. Just a small wave on both of our parts before I follow the older man away from the room I've grown used to calling my own and the only person I've ever really been able to call my friend.

It's a quiet walk down the sterile hallways, every room passing as a blur as I try not to look inside. Still, I find myself peering into each room, only getting a glimpse of certain patients. The first I see is an old man, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, clad in a papery gown and watching his swinging feet. His lips move but I don't hear any sound, whether because his voice is too low or his words are silent, and I wonder who he's talking to. I find myself devising stories for each patient I see, imagining what their reason for admission is and where they came from. The old man is here for delusions, I imagine. He's talking to his wife, who has been dead for years, and she can reply only in his mind.

Before long, Francis is pulling open the main entrance doors, allowing me to go outside first though I have no idea where to go. I slow down my steps and glance around nervously, suddenly feeling too exposed here in the open. The sun is burning down on my back instantly and the cool Spring air creates goosebumps on my skin. I cringe against the vastness that seems to extend in every direction-- a never ending parking lot, full of cars and a sense of ominous desertion; How many of these cars belong to people who will never leave this place?

"This way." I feel the presence of Detective Francis' hand near by back though he doesn't actually touch me. The simple almost-contact is enough to press me in the direction he's pointing, where I see an awaiting black Honda Accord Coupe. I can make out a blonde-haired driver, who I assume is Braddock, waiting with tapping fingers on the steering wheel. I'm somewhat surprised; It's not until I actually see the vehicle do I realize that I was expecting a police car to transport me to the dreaded destination of Beatrice Webb's group home.

Francis opens the door for me, letting me slide into the dark backseat. The tinted windows block out the sun and my eyes have to adjust to the sudden lack of light as I glance around. I catch Braddock's blue eyes in the rear-view mirror once before quickly averting my gaze and settle with just staring down at my lap, the plastic bag crinkling in my hold.

The ride is awkwardly silent, not even the radio on to keep the voices in my head quieted. So many thoughts are racing through me, each one taking on a different tone and screaming at me to remember, but they all just blend together and I get nothing but a headache.

When the car eventually pulls to a stop and I look up, I'm shocked and terrified, excited and nauseous, to see my very own house outside the darkened window. My breathing stutters and I let out what almost sounds like a pathetic laugh. "Why..." I swallow hard, the gesture loud in the tense silence of the car, and try to force the question past my lips.  _Why are we here?_ But the words catch and I can't seem to get them out.

Francis looks back at me from the passengers seat. "You'll need some clothes," He explains. "And maybe some personal belongings." His voice is soft, like if he says something the wrong way, I might shatter into a million pieces. But his voice isn't what will break me; Being here, inside the house my mother and father both died in, will be the thing that tears me apart inside.

I nod, not being able to formulate an acceptable response, and watch as Francis climbs out of the car. Again, he opens the door for me, but I don't pay mind to him and shuffle out the other side instead, slamming the door maybe harder than necessary when my feet are on the pavement.

He follows close behind me as I take the stony path to the front door, producing a spare key and fidgeting with the lock as he speaks. "A few officers have already been through," He informs me. "Just a routine check to make sure nothing is here that shouldn't be."

It takes me a moment before I realize what he's telling me; They've cleaned out all evidence of my mother's suicide already, probably the medication and sharp objects as well, in case I decide to flip shit and turn homicidal.

When he pushes the door open, Francis steps aside to allow me entrance. "I'll be waiting out here. Take all the time you need."

It doesn't take me as long as I think it should to pack. As soon as I step foot into the desolate house, I want to turn and run in the opposite direction. A wave of emotions hit me-- Sadness, fury, nostalgia. But most of all, emptiness.

There's nothing here for me.

I don't spend time looking at the broken plates that scatter the kitchen floor, not taking time to wonder why they're there, or my mother's open bedroom door. I head straight for my bedroom, but it feels void of anything useful. I do as Francis requested, finding a suitcase and piling in all of my jeans and shirts, before turning to actually study the room I don't recognize as my own anymore.

It looks the same; The same peeling wallpaper, a few posters hanging at random intervals, my desk cluttered with abandoned papers, comic books peeking out from under my bed. All things some part of me wants to take, but I choose to leave behind. Those aren't important to me anymore. The only thing that really holds any sort of value anymore, whether of the life I'm now leaving behind or of my mother's memory, is the rough piece of paper that is crumpled up in my pocket. The suicide note that reveals my mother's last thoughts and the revelation that someone out there is watching over me.

I leave the suitcase, still open, on the bed and make my way into the attached bathroom. Recalling the day, now seeming so long ago, when I chose to end my life, I look at the reflection in the mirror. I remember writing the words that now are only faint markings. Someone tried to scrub them off, attempting to erase the only thing I had decided to leave behind. I can only make out the outline, just shadows where my farewell had been scribbled in sharpie.

**_xo Frank_ **

My hand is more steady this time as I grasp the marker that still lies next to the sink. Pulling off the black cap, I lean forward. The words sound so loud in my head, resonating through me with some memory I can't exactly place, and I scrawl them onto my own reflection.

**_Did we all fall down?_**  

Then I drop the marker into the trash bin, turning on my heels and going back to the open suitcase. Zipping it up, I make my way down the stairs to where Francis and Braddock are waiting to take me to my new home.

**_(A/N: In case you didn't understand the "_ Did we all fall down?" _reference, they're lyrics to Desert Song; The first song that the skeleton boy sang to Frank. -MyChemicalRachel)_**


	26. Chapter 26

_Group home_. It sounded like a nursing home.  _Orphanage_  didn't sound much better, in my opinion. But it didn't matter what I called it. Each term put the same grim image into my head; An old-fashioned mansion, complete with deteriorating foundation, chipping paint, and decaying flowers leading up a cracked stone path to a heavy wooden door that would seal in my fate.

Ha.  _Fate_.

The concept of fate seems ridiculous to me right now. Curled in on myself, staring out of a tinted window with nothing but a single case of belongings, being driven to a group home after my mother killed herself. If this is destiny, then fate has a sick sense of humor.

When the car pulls into the long driveway of my new home, I'm somewhat surprised by what is laid out before me. A large brick building sits at the head of a U-shaped driveway. Green grass sprouts in every direction, covering every ground surface that isn't paved with the pale asphalt. The building stretches out to both my left and right though it's only two stories high. Windows scatter the front of the home, colorful curtains drawn in various rooms to allow the sunlight in. Contradicting to the name  _group home_ , it looks rather empty, until the front door swings open and a slender woman emerges from the house.

Following the suits, I climb tentatively from the car, dragging my case behind me. I cringe against the breeze that suddenly feels too cold on my skin and glance around nervously. I try to ignore the way the curtains seem to shift, unseen eyes watching me from beyond the coverings. Instead, I focus on the woman that meets us at the end of the stairs that lead from the porch to the driveway.

"You must be Frank," She beams. Opening her arms wide in a gesture to the property behind her, I can't help but flinch away. She doesn't seem to notice. "I'm Beatrice Webb."

Well, I didn't see that coming. In all honesty, I had imagined Beatrice Webb as a stout woman with a hunch-back and grey hair. But the woman in front of me was tall and thin, standing straight and her spine rigid, with pale brown hair falling around her shoulders.

Beatrice turns to the detectives, thankfully forgetting me for the moment. I take the chance to peer around, taking in the serene atmosphere. It actually feels...  _Homey_. A few bright green flower pots hang around the ledge of the porch, looking vibrant and inviting against the dull red color of the monotonous brick. Bushes line the walls beneath the first floor windows, some budding pale white and yellow flowers. My eyes scan over each detail, taking in what I see and trying to imagine what the inside will look like.

When I turn back to the others, a boy is joining our small group. Beatrice takes notice him in the same moment and waves the blonde-haired boy over. He glances at me, his bright blue eyes seeming to skim over me in a way that makes me feel nervous, but a smirk plays on the corners of his pale lips.

Beatrice drapes an arm around the boy's shoulders, smiling at me. "Frank, this is Bob," She says. Her voice is slow, making sure I grasp onto every word. "He's been assigned to show you around and make sure you get settled in, as well as picking up your schoolwork every week."

_Oh great. He's my babysitter_.

And then last part of her statement registers and I turn to look at Francis, confusion probably evident in my expression. "What does she mean, pick up my schoolwork?"

"Well," The older detective fidgets uncomfortably under my scrutiny and runs a hand over his mustache. "We thought that you could use a break from school for a little while. It will give you time to adjust to the living arrangements here and it will be better for your recovery." My face falls and I think that anger may be mixed in with my expression, as Francis hurries on. "It's just for the rest of the year, Frank," He explains. "Two more months. You've already missed two weeks due to the hospitalization. This is for  _your_  benefit. You'll be able to catch up on your work and still finish the year on time."

I roll my eyes and fight the urge to groan, letting the gesture free internally. The only thing that was going to be normal in my life and they were taking it away from me. I can't help but feel a small amount of relief, though-- Home schooling meant that I didn't have to deal with bullies, students and teachers alike. Regardless, I know exactly why they want me home schooled; They want to keep a better eye on me. They don't want me to try to kill myself again.

I turn my attention back to the boy before me;  _Bob_. I gesture lazily with one arm toward the awaiting prison, asking in a dry voice, "Shall we?"

Bob nods and turns on his heels. I drag my suitcase behind me and follow him, leaving the detectives and my new guardian to their own devices.

The house feels stuffy and hot, dark against the burning brightness outside. A few overhead lights shine down on us, reminding me of the hospital and causing a pang in my chest. I look down at the smooth wooden floors and shift the weight of the luggage in my hands.

"It's Frank, right?" I glance up to see Bob is watching me intently, the gleam in his blue eyes still visible as they rake over my body. 

I swallow hard and nod.

"You tried to kill yourself?"

I raise an eyebrow, unsure of what to say. He's blunt, I'll give him that much, but his straightforwardness gives me pause. I take in his appearance, from the dark jeans and loose-fitting jacket, zipped up to almost his neck, to the dirty blonde hair that sweeps right across his forehead and the single black ring that penetrates his lower lip. He waits silently for an answer before I decide I like his directness-- not like everyone else who has been tip-toeing around me like I might break if they say the wrong thing. So I simply nod again. "Yep."

He bites down on his lip and scrutinizes me some more. His gaze is unnerving and I shift again, clearing my throat. "So," I say awkwardly. "You're my babysitter?"

He laughs and his glare softens. "Yeah, I guess I am." He watches me uneasily for a moment longer before stuffing his hands into his pockets and gesturing with his head to the rest of the house. "Come on. I'll show you around."

He moves first, shuffling his shoe-clad feet across the hardwood. I follow slightly behind, taking everything in as he motions and speaks at the same time. The house is short and wide, like it's been smooshed under some invisible weight, flattened and spread out. Bob leads me across the spacious foyer, straight ahead to an immense staircase. Gold and brown rugs adorn the steps, the swirling colors of rough material looking far too elegant to be just a decoration on the floor. The hallway at the top of the stairs expands in both directions, doors lining every wall. Bob gestures down the right side of the corridor first. "The right wing is used for recreation," He explains. "Computer lab-- everything is monitored by Bea and your time is limited to an hour a day. You'll have to get the password from her later. Arcade, but you have to earn that; It's a privilege here. Study, which is open any time."

Bob turns down the left hall, walking at a slow pace and I follow close behind. This hallway, I note, is covered in a deep blue carpet as opposed to the first floor's wooden ground surface. Gesturing to each passing door, Bob continues. "These are the bedrooms. Bert and Jepha's room. CC and Andy's. Ashley and Ashlee."

Each door is decorated in a different way, expressing the names that Bob is stating as we pass. The first has a simple note that hangs on the wood; A single sheet of notebook paper, fringed at the edges, and ' _Bert and JephA. Stay the fuck out_ ' is scrawled in messy handwriting. The second is similar, but there's also a drawing of mean-looking stick figures in some sort of war at the bottom. Each room is the same in this sense; All having some sort of indication as to whom the room belongs to. Some are shared while others have only one occupant.

When we reach the end of the hall, Bob turns to the left, opening the last door and leading me inside. There's no sign on the outside and I safely assume that this room is meant to be mine.

The room is spacious, bare save for the two clean beds, fresh sheets and blankets making up each. I glance at Bob who guesses my unspoken question. "You won't have a roommate," He says, and then absently adds, "Not unless we get a few more kids and we have to hole them up in here. But, for now, you've got the room to yourself."

I nod, silently grateful. No offense to him or anyone else-- They're probably all nice-- but I'd rather be alone. There are two wooden dressers, pressed against opposite walls and making the room seem symmetrical, until I place my suitcase on one bed. I don't bother unpacking, not yet ready to accept that this is my new home until I'm eighteen and can inherit the small amount of money my mother left behind in a savings account for me. Instead, I turn back to face Bob.

His arms are folded across his chest and he looks around the empty room. Clearing my throat, his attention is back on me in an instant, and he offers a small smile. "Ready to see the rest of the house?"

I bite down on my lip and force a nod, following him from the room. I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans, now missing the reassuring weight of my suitcase. As Bob turns back down the hall, I catch a glimpse of the room across from my own. The door is shut but there's no name posted on the outside, like every other room. There's a single sheet of paper taped to the wood, but this one has nothing more than a drawing.

A black and white image, charcoal is my best guess judging by the blackened smudges and stark shadows. It's a girl; her thin frame cloaked in a ripped and dirty gown, flowing in elegance to the edges of the page. Pale hair cascades around her shoulders in a frizzy mess, adding to both the shock and awe of the drawing. Her face isn't visible, covered with a pure white gas mask.

I motion to the door with one hand and turn to face Bob. "Who stays in there?" I wonder, now curious.

"That's Gee's room," Bob says dismissively and looks incredibly awkward all of a sudden. Almost as if it physically pains him to be standing still, he turns and continues walking, not even making sure that I follow behind, though I do. "Come on. Let's go see the rest of the house."


	27. Chapter 27

Bob was strangely hesitant and mostly silent through the rest of the tour. As he led me past rooms, he would avert his gaze and only mumble what was behind each door. He would stand aside as I looked around, which is when he would take the chance to scrutinize me again, watching me when he didn't think I would notice. It was weird and it made me nervous. Why was he being all awkward all of a sudden? Had I done something wrong?

But the thought that was berating my mind more than Bob's precipitous change in behavior was the picture. It was simple enough-- I could even recreate it in my mind, mentally tracing over each contour and shadow in what I thought was near perfect detail-- but so complex at the same time.  _Who was she?_  Dressed in a Victorian era gown, she looked elegant, confident, and overall beautiful. But the torn and tarnished fabric, the predominantly dismal appearance gave her a radiating aura of impurity. And what the hell was up with the gas mask?

The questions plagued me through the entire tour and I barely focused on what Bob was saying or motioning to. I tried to stifle my curiosity and focus what he was telling me, but in the end, it was too enticing to leave alone. I had to know what the drawing meant, who the woman in the photo was supposed to be.

Bob was leading me back down the main hallway on the first floor, into the right wing. Through a large den, adorned with more gold and brown furnishings and a few comfortable-looking sofas, was a spacious kitchen. An black island stood in the center of the pure white room, looking awkward and out of place. Weaved baskets covered the smooth granite, filled to the tops with various fruits. Adjoining that was a dining room, a narrow table stretching across the area, it's wooden surface bare and polished. A multitude of chairs sit, pushed neatly in place, along the table on both sides.

I watch as Bob leans against the island, looking everywhere but at me and getting awkwardly silent. I shift on my feet and cross my arms.  _No, Frank_.  _Don't cross your arms._  Crossing your arms is a gesture of intimidation, trying to exert your dominance over someone. I don't want him to feel like I'm cornering him.

I almost laugh at the thought; I'm Frank Iero. I'm 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones; Intimidation isn't exactly one of my strong points. Even still, I drop both of my arms to my sides, shuffling awkwardly before settling with stuffing my hands into my pockets. Bob eyes my curiously and I bite down on my lip, wondering how I'm going to word my next question.

"Who's Gee?"  _Wow, Frank. Way to be subtle._ "You've been acting all awkward since you mentioned him."

Bob visibly tenses. Oh crap. I made him feel cornered. Now he's never going to answer me. He's going to run! Should I tackle him? Pin him to the floor and demand he tell me who the woman in the picture is?

But instead of sprinting from the room, Bob sighs, looking defeated. His head drops and he avoids eye contact, though I don't argue. "He's been here as long as I can remember," Bob finally says. "And I've been here since I was six. He's like a big brother to me."

Well that doesn't answer any of my questions. I wait for more, but Bob says nothing else. He gnaws on his bottom lip and I'm slightly concerned he's going to bite it off. Eventually, the silence becomes too much for even Bob and he sighs again. This time, the breath leaves him heavily and his whole posture changes. He looks up at me, no longer hesitant. He looks like a defensive brother. "Some shit happened a few years back and he got really depressed," Bob explains in a hurry. "He's just starting to get better. I'm worried that having you here is going to make things worse."

What? What could have happened so long ago that just my presence here could make worse? Did I know this Gee kid? Maybe I did something to him that made him depressed in the first place. I rack my brain for any  _Gee_  that I could possibly know, but come up with absolutely nothing.

I'm about to ask more-- and I think Bob notices this as his jaw tenses and he stares me down-- but before the words can leave my lips, Beatrice is sauntering into the kitchen. She beams when she sees Bob and I together, probably pleased that I haven't yet retreated back into my new bedroom.

Bob takes advantage of the distraction and picks up an apple from one of the baskets. Rubbing it on his pants, he meets my gaze one last time before swiftly taking a bite.

Beatrice reaches across the island, landing a smack to the back of Bob's head, who promptly begins choking on the apple. "Serves you right," The woman smirks, feigning a disapproving scowl. "Dinner will be ready at six. Don't eat too much. And cover your mouth when you choke."

Bob rolls his eyes, but grins regardless and raises a hand to abide. I shift again, feeling uncomfortable suddenly as Beatrice's gaze lands on me. Her smile saddens and I nearly grimace. I can tell exactly what she's thinking as her thoughts play plainly across her face. I don't need, nor do I want, her pity.

Before she has the chance to open her mouth, I interrupt. "I'm kind of tired," I lie easily. "Would you mind if I laid down for a bit?"

Beatrice hesitates before the corners of her mouth lift and she nods. "Of course." She turns to the counter, grabbing various objects. I think she just wants something to do with her hands. Hmm. Maybe she's just as wary about this entire situation as I am. "Dinner will be ready by six," She repeats her previous statement, not even looking back at me. "Shall I have someone get you before then?"

I shake my head before realizing she can't see me, adding a quiet, "No, thank you."

Beatrice nods in understanding. Turning to face me again, she fumbles with a wooden spoon. "Alright. Well, the kitchen is always open."

"Okay." I don't know what to say, feeling more awkward by the second, and turn on my heels to leave. I want to make a run for the front door, see if I can catch up with the detectives and demand they take me somewhere else or maybe just head straight for the hospital and beg Ray to rethink pushing me out of a window. But, in the end, I just wander through the seemingly vacant house, easily retracing the steps that Bob and I took not so long ago. When I reach the door at the end of the hall, I hesitate. As I turn the knob, I can't help but glance at the room across my own. Studying the picture again, I sigh. I could just knock. I could see if this Gee kid answers and just ask what the damn photo means. But I can't. I can't bring myself to do it.

When I shut the door behind me, moving my still-unpacked suitcase to the floor, I lay down on the bed. I have to admit, the mattress is measurably more comfortable than the hospitals, and the sheets here smell like flowers instead of bleach.

Even though I don't feel tired, as soon as my head hits the pillow, I find myself exhausted and overtaken by sleep.

•••

_Holy hell. What time is it?_

I roll over on the bed, groaning and cautiously opening my eyes. There was still a good amount of daylight peeking in through the pale green curtains when I had come in here, but now, I can see nothing in the calm darkness. Something to my left catches my eye and I follow the dim red light to where an alarm clock flickers with the current time. 

Three in morning.

_Great._

I rub a hand across my face, willing sleep to engulf me again, but have no such luck. I'm awake. And my stomach is hungry. Standing up, I stretch, tugging absently at the jeans that cling uncomfortably to my body. Note to self:  _Don't sleep in denim, dumbass._ I pull the door open, trying my best to be quiet, knowing that everyone else is probably sleeping.

The stairs creak only slightly against my weight, more likely from age than from wear. My hand just barely grazes over the banister as I descend the staircase, glancing around in the darkness. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust on the first floor and I take a moment to remember exactly where the kitchen is.

When I get to the correct room, I tug the refrigerator open, cringing when bright light pools around me. I cast a glance over my shoulder before peering into the fridge, my eyes raking over the contents. Numerous containers fill the shelves, each with a sticker on the top, displaying what the container holds and a date, which I assume is when the food was prepared. Some things are labeled in other ways and after a few seconds, I realize that those are for certain people. One canister bares the name  _C. Mora_ while another reads  _A. Costello_. And then I see a plain blue container, pushed to the right side of the middle shelf. The top states  _J. Howard & F. Iero_.

_Me?_

I immediately grab the plastic bowl and peel the lid off. Inside is some sort of pasta and white sauce. Hesitantly, I sniff.  _Oh my damn, that smells incredible_. I have to stop myself from digging in right then and there, instead tilting the container in my hands again. This time, I see another marking, the same as the others. The date--  _today_ \-- and underneath that;  _Vegetarian- Pasta and Alfredo_.

Oh. Wow. Not only do they know I don't eat meat-- I haven't told anyone that since Ray. Perhaps the detectives learned from the hospital records and informed Beatrice-- but they were actually nice enough to make something specifically for me. Well, me and this  _J. Howard_  person. Maybe I'll like it here after all...

I don't think too much about it, turning my attention to scavenging the drawers for a fork while the food warms up in the microwave. When the faint beeping alerts me to my foods readiness, I place myself in at a chair in the dining table. Even though I'm currently alone, I find myself feeling awkward. It doesn't feel like this is my house, even though technically it is now. This is my new home and yet I can't help the feeling of anxiety, like I don't belong. Then again, I guess I don't really belong anywhere anymore.

When I'm finished, I rinse the bowl in the sink and place it in the dishwasher.

_Okay. Now what?_

I could try to go back to my room and sleep longer, but I don't see that happening. I'm wide awake. Go ahead; Cue the Katy Perry music in the background. 

I could bathe. I took a shower before leaving the hospital, but I still feel dirty. But taking a shower would only make me feel more awkward. It's like when you're at a friend's house and you wake up before everyone else; You just lay there and stare at the ceiling for two hours because it's too weird to do anything else.

However, my body doesn't feel like laying still and staring at a ceiling. Instead, my body leads me back up the stairs, down the right wing toward the recreational rooms. I pass a few doors, reading the sign on each one that indicates what's inside.

_Computer lab_ ; Nope. I try to handle, but it's locked. Even if it was open, I don't have the password.

_Arcade_ ; That one's locked, too.

_Study_ ; I turn the handle, not really expecting it to give way, but it does and I find myself pushing the door open. I recall what Bob had told me earlier in the day; The study is always open.  _Well then_. I guess I'm hanging out in the study.

The " _study_ " is actually just a good-sized room filled with a few book cases and a couple tables. I can only tell this because as soon as the door creaks open, light filters out into the hallway. I peer into the room, wondering if they always leave the light on, before my eyes land on a kid taking up refuge at a table to the left.

His head is down, stringy black hair falling forward to cover his face. His body is hunched over the table, where a mess of pencils and a few half-finished drawings clutter the smooth surface. His hand is clutching a thick black charcoal pencil, the chipping nail-polish nearly blending in, as he sketches intently on the picture before him.

I inch closer, almost involuntarily, stopping a few feet from the edge of the table. My eyes scan over the images; Messy, grim, and enticing. One is a hauntingly pale face of a man, his vacant eyes sunk in and surrounded by black circles. Another has two people, facing each other-- they look captivated, almost about to kiss-- but their faces are splattered with red.

I catch a slight glimpse of what the boy is hovering over and my heartbeat accelerates in my chest. Three women standing in a line, each looking sorrowful. On the left is a girl clothed in a black dress, clutching roses to her chest, her lips parted in silent shock. The right is just an outline of a girl, not yet shaded in, or maybe she never will be. She's entirely white aside from the single streak of black falling from her eye. In the middle of the two is the now familiar woman who's face is covered in a gas mask.

I hear a gasp and my attention is pulled to the boy who is no longer focused on the drawing. He's looking up at me. His face is a mixture of surprise and curiosity when his bright hazel eyes meet mine. "You scared the shit out of me." He says, heaving a sigh and shifting on the chair.

I fidget as well, not sure what to say to the boy who just caught me being a complete and total stalker. So I just swallow hard and wait for him to say something first.

After a few moments of awkward silence and too-long eye contact, he speaks. "Hi, Frank." His voice is hesitant and it only adds to the awkwardness. God, could I get five seconds in this house without everything getting so fucking  _awkward_?

_Wait, how does he know my name?_

I attempt to ask him this, but apparently my mouth does not get the memo and I hear myself say something completely different instead. "You're Gee."

He nods slowly, biting down on his lip. "Yep," He agrees. "I am."

**_(A/N: DAMMIT RACHEL. WHY DID YOU STOP THERE!?! Because I am evil and I do what I want ;D Hahaha!! Anyways, Yes, Gerard is finally there and they are finally coming face to face!!! Don't expect a baby-making scene just yet, though. More sh#t's going down. Anybody recognize the drawings? Also, bonus points is you caught the Teen Wolf/Stiles quote; "_ ** _I am 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones, okay? Sarcasm is my only defense._ **_" ANYWHORE this authors note is far too long so yeah... I just hope you liked it :D  
-MyChemicalRachel)_ **


	28. Chapter 28

I can't move. My body feels stiff and tense and my limbs are refusing to function properly. I know I should say something to ease the awkward silence, but my mind is blank. What am I supposed to say?  _I feel strangely drawn to you because the picture hanging on your bedroom door-- though creepy-- intrigued me_? For some reason, I don't think that would come across in a flattering manner.

Gee stares at me for a moment longer, time seeming to slow down as his hazel eyes scrutinize me. They graze down the length of my body, taking in every detail, and I take the chance to let my own eyes skim over him as well. He's dressed in Jack Skellington pajama pants and a plain black long sleeved T-shirt. His dark hair is pushed behind one ear while it hangs loose on the other side, falling forward to cover one of his eyes.  _Those eyes_...

And then he jumps up and time goes back to it's normal speed. He bites down on his lip as he fumbles with the delicate papers that scatter the table. He flips a few over, hiding the gracefully drawn images, sliding them over the half-finished picture of the three women he was working on. He then nods at the seat across from him. "Do you wanna sit...?" His voice sounds unsure and he avoids direct eye contact, seeming nervous.

I swallow every word that won't form and settle with a nod. I slide into the chair and look down at the smooth wooden surface. Some charcoal dusts the brown and tan material, giving it a used and slightly dirty look. Raising a single finger, I run it over the pale black residue, leaving one clean streak across the wood, though the charcoal instantly stains the tip of my finger. The indents of my fingerprint are still a pale peach color, untouched by the tainting dust. I rub my thumb against the index, smearing the black in and creating a dark grey.

Gee clears his throat and I look up at him, my hand dropping back to my lap and my mind kicking into high gear, words finally seeming to come. "Who are you?" I wonder aloud.

"Gerard," He states, a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "I thought we already established this much."

_Gerard_.

I roll the name around in my head, nodding slowly. "Gerard." I let the name slip past my lips and I can't deny I like the way it sounds. It seems fitting. It's uncommon, strange, and I like the way it falls so easily off the tip of my tongue. It feels vaguely familiar, the way my lips form around each syllable, and just the simple sound makes my heartbeat accelerate.

I bite down against the sudden nerves I feel and scrutinize the boy further. Pale flesh stretches across a perfect bone structure, a few freckles adorning the skin. His small nose is upturned and perky. His tongue grazes once over pink lips, turned slightly upward in what might be the start of a smile. Gold and amber flecks glimmer brightly against the green and emerald irises, creating a beautiful hazel. I can't help but compare him to the brief glimpse of drawings that I had seen cluttering the table. He's a picture perfect image and I imagine him in still life, every detail of him captured in the black and grey charcoal that stains his fingers.

"You look familiar," I say.

Gerard chuckles, breaking his eyes away from mine and nodding. "Um..." He sounds nervous again. Did I say something wrong? I think back to my not-very-informative talk with Bob earlier. He said that my presence here could make Gerard fall back into depression. Oh crap, I'm making him uncomfortable! But the raised corners of his lips, the small shadow of a smile that hangs there, doesn't come across as sadness. "We actually go to school together."

My eyebrows knot together and I think back to seeing him anywhere, even a quick shared glance in the hallway, but come up with nothing. And yet the sense of familiarity is too much to deny.

"We sat at the same table in Chemistry," He elaborates. "And I sat a few seats behind you in English. And Math."

Again, I try to recall any of these classes, though my brain still comes up with nothing. It's like I can't seem to zero in on the details, like I'm somehow unable to grasp what I should easily know. But one thing does make sense...

"So that's how you know my name," I guess.

Gerard's face seems to flush a deeper shade of pink and he looks down quickly. "Yeah," He mumbles.

I raise an eyebrow curiously, but don't question the reaction any more. Instead, I decide to focus on another inquisition. I point a slim finger toward the drawings on the table, leaning forward. "May I?"

Gerard's eyes widen and he looks unsure before shifting nervously in his seat and nodding silently. 

I shoot him a smile before allowing my fingers to graze the textured paper. It's rough against my skin and I avoid touching the actual charcoal as to not smudge the image, though the dust still finds it's place on me. I shuffle through the drawings, not paying as much attention to each as I wish I could. I want to scrutinize all of them, memorize every shadow and contour. I want to know what every one of them means. But right now I want to know about  _her_.

My eyes scan over the girl, tracing the gown and gas mask, and I slide the image closer to Gerard, pointing. "I saw her on your bedroom door,"  _Well that sounded less creepy in my head._  "Who is she?"

Gerard visibly tenses, his back straightening and hands fisting on the tabletop. He doesn't move and I'm not even completely sure if he's breathing. He's watching the image and his hair covers his face, his expression unreadable. "She... Um..." He swallows hard, the stuttered words seeming to come out with a lot of work. "She..." 

I wait, not knowing what to say. But when Gerard glances back up at me, I see tears brimming in his eyes, dangerously close to spilling over. His lips are parted but he says nothing. Bob was right; I made him sad. But  _how_?

"I'm sorry--" I start to apologize, as my question has clearly made him upset, but my words are cut off when Gerard's speaks. 

"Her name is Mother War." That's all he says and for a long moment, I think that's all there is to it. Just a name. But Gerard sniffles and his body relaxes slightly. "I first drew her a few years ago when--" He hesitates and glances at me again. His jaw tenses and he shakes his head. "Well, it's a long story."

I want to hear the story. I don't care how long it takes to tell, how strange or demented it may be; I want to know her story. Maybe by hearing hers, I can learn some of Gerard's story as well. But I don't dare press the question any farther. Instead, I ask another.

"Why are you still awake?" I wonder. I glance around the room before my eyes land on a nearby wall clock, displaying a current time of just past four-thirty in the morning.

Gerard laughs sadly and his body relaxes back into his usual position, leaning back in the wooden seat. "I haven't had a full nights sleep in over three years," He mutters dryly. "Insomnia is my best friend by now." He gestures with one hand to the pages spread once again across the table between us. "On the plus side, I have time to draw." He folds his arms against his chest and glances up at me. "What about you? Why are you awake?"

I shrug. "Couldn't sleep," I say honestly. My eyes scan over the room, a motion meant to encompass the entire house. "I don't know. I guess it's just weird being here."

Gerard nods solemly and bites down on his bottom lip. "Bea told me a little about what happened," He says. "And I'm sorry about your mom."

I press my lips into a flat line, not knowing what to say.  _Thanks_? It's not his fault my mother decided to kill herself. It's not his fault that she succeeded or that I failed. So I settle with another limp shrug. "I don't think it's really hit me yet," I admit. "I mean, she wasn't much of a mother after my dad died anyway. But she was still my mom." I laugh once, an action that doesn't hold any humor. "I don't know. Maybe it will really hit me hard on my birthday or on graduation. I'll realize that they're both really gone." I'm silent for a moment, imagining that. No cake that's wishing me a happy eighteenth, or sharing the baked treat with a bunch of strangers in a house that feels practically empty. Walking across the stage, shaking hands and faking a smile, while no one is there to cheer me on. "Hell, maybe I'll just try again. Shoot myself instead of downing a bottle of pills this time. Make sure I do the job right."

"Don't say that," Gerard snaps and I look up, realizing that I spoke that last part out loud. His eyes meet mine, fury and terror building behind their hazel hue and making my heart beat faster yet again. "Please, don't say that." His voice is softer this time, almost pleading.

I swallow hard and tilt my head to one side, watching him. What does he care if I kill myself?

Before I have the chance to ask, Gerard is grabbing all of the sheets of paper from the table, some of them crinkling and bending but he doesn't seem to care. "I have to go," He says, the words sounding choked, before wiping the back of his hand across his face and nearly bolting from the room.


	29. Chapter 29

I don't go back to sleep right away. My mind is spinning, pounding against the walls of my skull and demanding I focus on more important things than repose.

Not long after Gerard flees from the study, I follow. I take the increasingly familiar steps down the narrow hall, straight past the occupied rooms until I come face to face with my own door. I stop outside, my eyes grazing over the smooth wooden features. No sign. Perhaps I should make one, maybe a warning for others to ' _keep the fuck out_ ' like Bert and Jepha or just a simple drawing like Gerard. Though really there's nothing  _simple_  about it.

I turn on my heels at the thought and examine the door across from my own. It's hard to see in the dark, but I can make out the sharp outline of the drawings form.  _Mother War._  I take an involuntary step forward, feeling drawn to not only the image but the boy who lies behind the doors barrier. I should knock; I should apologize for whatever I said that make him leave so quickly. But there's only one problem;  _I have no idea what I said that made him upset_.

A faint noise breaks through the silence and my ears instantly perk up. I lean closer to the closed door and listen intently. Yeah, the sound is definitely coming from in there...

I place a single hand flat against the wood and rest my ear on the door. Stifled through the barrier, I hear a sound that makes my heart wrench. Heavy breaths are hindered with near silent sobs. Is Gerard crying? 

I inhale sharply and swallow down the lump that rises in my throat. Closing my eyes, I listen to the pitiful sound. It's muffled, but not only due to the door that separates us. I think he has his face buried in a pillow. He's trying to be quiet.

I bite back every irrational instinct that wants to barge into the room and comfort the other boy, forcing myself to turn around and go back into my own bedroom.

When the door is shut tightly, I fall back onto my bed. The light is still off, allowing the darkness to absorb me. It feels familiar to have nothing but vast blackness blanketing my body, swallowing me whole with it's neverending shadows. I sigh contently and let my eyes drift closed. I think I doze off because suddenly the darkness is gone and I'm surrounded again by empty white walls. 

Abandoned gurneys litter the hall and fluorescent lights flicker eerily overhead. Casting a nervous glance around, I take a hesitant step forward. "Hello?" I call out. My voice echoes from the hospital walls, sounding too loud, and I cringe away from the noise. My heart pounds steadily in my ears, faster than normal with the panic I feel inching it's way into the pit of my stomach.

The lights flicker off completely, covering me in shadows for only a moment, before flaring brighter again. It feels burning on my back and I force my feet to carry me forward, though it's only a step.

How did I get here? Is this a dream?

I try to calm my breathing, repeating those words in my head like a mantra;  _This is only a dream. I will wake up._  I ball my hand into a fist, digging my fingernails into the palm of my hand and willing some pain to jerk me into consciousness, but nothing happens. My hand stings where the skin is now broken, but I don't stop.

_This is just a dream..._

_Then why can't I wake up?_

I close my eyes tightly and my jaw clenches. I taste iron in my mouth when my teeth nick the inside of my cheek, small drops of blood gathering on my tongue. I swallow them down with the fear and force another tiny step. With my eyes closed, I can see nothing, but the presence that settles over the dream has my eyes shooting open within only a second. I can  _feel_  him near me.

My eyes dart around the vacant hallway before landing on him; The slim figure that seems both familiar and foreign at once, drawing me closer and yet warning me away. My breathing hitches at the vague memories that flood with seeing the boy; His black marching band jacket is as neat and pressed as ever. The white attachments glint under the flickering lights, his short hair matching in color near perfectly. Pale white and stark black facepaint covers his sharp features creating the mask of a skeleton though his piercing hazel eyes are far from dead.

_The skeleton boy_...

I stagger forward a step, managing to trip over my own feet. I wait for the pain of my face colliding with the cold tile floor, but feel warm arms embrace me instead. I look up, wide eyed, at the skeleton boy who grins down at me.

"I remember you..." I mumble. My thoughts are faint and the pounding in my ears is making it hard to think straight, but the memories collide like a car crash in my mind, bursting into flames and igniting some distant feeling.

This is the skeleton boy who visited me in my coma. This is my angel.

_This is who sang me to sleep_. 

"Who are you?" I demand. His features are blurry, constantly changing in a way that I can't tell who the man behind the disguise is. But I  _have to know_.

The skeleton boy smiles again, his arms still wrapped around me like a shield. "I'll be right beside you," He whispers. His breath hits my face and sends chills down my spine, a sense of longing following close behind. "I'll always be right here."

The skeleton boy leans closer, his heat surrounding me and making me feel utterly serene. I allow my eyes to close again. His lips hover just above mine as my fingers grip the stiff fabric, pulling him closer. I want him. I need to feel his mouth against mine, his hands on my skin. I  _need_  him. 

But before the contact can send a wave of pleasure through my body, I'm once again brought back into the darkness of my bedroom. My hands are knotted in the sheets beneath me, clothes sticking uncomfortably to my skin with sweat. I sigh, disappointment and longing surging through me.

I push myself off of the mattress, standing up and flicking on the lightswitch. I ignore the burning in my eyes at the sudden brightness as my pupils shrink back to a normal size and ruffle through my belongings until I find what it is I'm looking for.

The hospitals visitor logs are crumpled and out of order by this point, but I don't care. I don't know exactly what I'm looking for, this time having no name to go on other than that of a dead kid. But my will is stronger than ever now. I have to know who sang to me.

_I have to find out who the skeleton boy is_.


	30. Chapter 30

When the sunlight started seeping into my room like venom, I definitely took notice. My eyes had been out of focus from staring at the visitors logs for two hours on end, my pupils blown wide with the concentration and struggle to read the scribbled names. There had to be something here; I just knew it. If only I could  _find_  it.

As the rays of sun filtered throughout the room, so did sound. I heard the distinct sound of bustling teens as they hurried to get ready and leave for school, but I sat back on my bed and waited until the noise calmed down and everyone left before daring to go in search of the one thing I needed most...

Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee...

I rummage through another cabinet, pulling away with nothing but a half-empty box of uncooked spaghetti noodles and a clean frying pan. Why the hell is that up there? I don't have time to question the odd placement of the kitchenware, just stuffing it back into the cabinet. I jump down off of my perch on the marble-top counter and move to the ground, crossing my legs and rifling through the bottom cabinets. "Where is the damn coffee?"

I wasn't expecting an answer-- I thought I was alone-- which is why I jump when I hear someone behind me reply. "Right above the damn coffee maker."

I stagger clumsily to my feet and tighten my grip on the counters ledge, pressing my back against it and inhaling a sharp breath. "You scared the crap out of me," I sigh. I try to calm my too-fast heartbeat and study the person who snuck up on me. It's a girl, the first one I've actually seen in this house aside from Beatrice though, granted, I hadn't seen much of anyone. She had her back turned to me, black hair falling down in elegant waves to the middle of her back. She stands up on the toes of her combat boot clad feet, reaching both arms up into a cabinet above her. The hem of her white shirt rises and I see the top of a tattoo across her lower back that dips below the waist of her dark jeans. Her shoulders move with a small laugh before she turns to face me. "I'm Ash."

She brushes her bangs, a vibrant orange color, away from her face and shoves an open hand toward me, her painted red lips stretching into a wide grin. I hesitantly reach a shaky hand forward, but she doesn't notice my nerves. Or at least she doesn't say anything if she does. "You must be Frank," She continues before turning back to the strange looking device on the counter.

Ash motions me to come stand beside her and tugs open a white and green box before producing a small plastic container of some sort. Reading over her shoulder, I realize this must be the coffee stash. "It's a Keurig coffee maker," She explains, opening a latch and placing the plastic pod inside. Hitting a dial, she shoves a Micky Mouse mug in place just as steaming liquid comes pouring out. "One of those fancy one-cup maker things." Shrugging, she allows the mug to fill before raising it to her lips and watching me over the black brim.

I fidget under her gaze and occupy myself with attempting to mimic her motions. I don't pay attention to what kind of coffee Ash pulled out, simply taking a container and shoving it inside the maker before looking around frantically for an empty mug. Ash reaches up again into the previous cabinet and offers me a plain white mug. "Thanks," I mumble and take the cup from her hands.

Waiting for the coffee to make seems to take longer this time around and awkward silence fills the kitchen. I feel the need to say something, so I lean back against the counter next to Ash. "Why aren't you in school?"

The girl next to me swallows and glances over. "Graduated last year," She explains.

"Oh..." I say, now honestly curious. "Then you're eighteen?"

Ash nods easily and blows on the steaming liquid in her cup. I look down at the coffee maker and realize my mug has finished filling. Taking the warm drink into my hands, I take a small sip. "But I thought these places only sheltered until we were eighteen."

I try not to focus on the fact that I said  _we_ , associating myself with the others here. I don't want any part of them. I want to finish out my term as a minor and get the hell out of here. 

But Ash simply chuckles. "This isn't some orphanage or foster home, Frank," She tells me. "It's a group home." I raise an eyebrow in confusion, egging her to explain. Isn't it the same thing? Ash shakes her head at the unspoken question and shifts her weight against the counter, sighing. "Group homes are here for people who need help who lost those who help them. I'm here because my parents died in a car accident when I was thirteen. Beatrice has helped me cope with their death and save up money for myself. She would never kick someone out just because they're eighteen." She takes another drink before adding, "Especially if they're still in school, like Bert or Gerard."

My ears instantly perk up at the mention of Gerard. I try not to let my interest show, but my body stiffens and Ash notices. She smiles. "You've met them?"

"Gerard," I admit. "Um... We kind of talked last night."

Her hazel eyes widen a little and she tilts her head. "Really? He doesn't really talk to anyone else." She sounds surprised, but shrugs as if it's nothing before scoffing and bringing the mug back to her lips. Her words are mumbled though they bring an increase to my heartbeat. "And Bob thought having you around would be a bad thing."

Now it's my turn to widen my eyes. I lean closer, biting down maybe too hard on my lip ring and trying to contain my anticipation. "He mentioned something about that," I say, choosing my words carefully. "Bob said he was just getting better, but my being here might make it worse. What did he mean?"

Ash freezes, her red lips on the brim of the cup and her eyes darting to me once. Slowly she lowers the drink, watching the dark liquid slosh around like it's suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. "You don't know..." She says.

I shake my head, more intrigued by the second. "No, I don't know. What?"

She swallows hard and taps her painted black fingernails against the mug. She leans away cautiously, her eyes flicking around the room as if she's looking for some sort of escape. When she finds none, she sighs and lets her head drop forward. "Something happened a few years ago..." I wait for a few long moments after her mumbled response, but she says nothing. The silence seems to drag on and it's eating at my insides. Everyone in this house is hiding something from me and I intend to find out what it is.

"Ash?" I prompt.

She looks up suddenly and inhales sharply. She seems lost in her own thoughts, forgetting that I was here completely. I lower my head to look her straight in the eyes. "What happened a few years ago?"

More tapping comes from fingernails on ceramic. She opens her mouth a few times, forcing words that don't seem to be coming, heavy breaths being the only thing that leave her bright lips. She bites down on the bottom lip, tugging at it and sighing again. "I think you should ask  _him_." 

Groaning internally, I lean back against the counter with all of my weight. All of this buildup and she still wasn't going to tell me  _why_  my very presence was enough to make Gerard depressed.  _Again_. "Look, it's not really my place to tell," Ash explains, sensing my exasperation. "If Gee doesn't want you to know, then he won't tell you and neither will I." She shrugs limply. "It's what family does."

Ignoring the pang in my chest at her use of the word  _family_ , I mumble a soft "yeah" and put my empty coffee mug in the sink. I leave Ash to her own devices and make my way back up the stairs, closing myself in the bedroom once again to focus on my skeleton boy.

•••

A knock on the door brings me out of my trance-like state-- Blurry visioned, light headed, and stomach growling-- and I look up from the logs I've been raking over for the past...

I glance at my alarm clock, realizing I have no idea how long I've been in this same position, reading these same names, with the same lack of information as when I started. It's just after three'o'clock.

I stand, tossing the white sheet of my bed across the logs that spill over the mattress. When I pull the door open, I come face to face with piercing blue eyes and a sideways smirk.

"Hi, Bob," I greet dryly and open the door wider so he can come in. He shuffles into the room and makes his way over to the unoccupied bed on the right side of the room. Dropping a stack of books and a bag on the mattress, he turns to me and grins. "I come bearing educational shit."

"Yay," I reply, letting the sarcasm drip from my tongue. As saddened as I was that my school things were being brought, literally, to my door, I had to admit that I was somewhat relieved. I couldn't face going back to school, enduring the dirty looks from people who thought my suicidal thoughts were contagious, or the teachers whose barren voices and vacant eyes made me feel even more depressed. Besides, home-schooling might give me more time to focus on finding the skeleton boy, which thus far was not going so well.

Bob laughs and nudges my shoulder. "Well, I'll let you get settled in," He says and offers one last sympathetic smile before disappearing out into the hallway. For the split second before the door closes behind him, I catch a glimpse of black hair across the hall.

My heart reaches out to Gerard, demanding that I apologize for being an ass-- even though I'm not actually sure which of my remarks came off as ass-like. But I shake my head, sitting down on the bed instead. I can deal with Gerard's mysteriousness later. Right now; I have school work to situate.

I line the textbooks on the bottom of a bookshelf behind the door, not bothering to organize them at all, before unzipping my backpack and searching through the contents. The last time I opened this bag was to take my pills out. That bottle is now most likely in a dump somewhere in the outskirts of Newark, the pills long gone from my system as well as their effects. Now, as I unzip the bag, my mind flashes back to that day. The day I tried to kill myself.

I remember the determination. At the time, I thought it was bravery; I wasn't scared to end my own life. If anything, I was excited. But now I know that bravery was just a cover-- In all reality, I was cloaking my fear. I was terrified to die, I still am, but the only thing that kept pushing me was the determination. I knew that what would come after the death would be worth it. I wasn't hoping for some pearly gates or fiery pits of hell. I didn't know what to expect. I just wanted eternal darkness. I wanted it all to end, not because I was brave but because I was scared.

I push the thoughts from my head and pull out a few journals, the sound of rustling paper and something else filling the room. Narrowing my eyes, I set the notebooks aside and dug farther into the backpack in search of whatever had made that noise. It sounded like marbles. You know when you put a bunch of marbles in a bag and turn them over-- The clank they make against each others smooth, hard surface.

My hand wraps around a bag and I pull it out, disclosing a red candy bag, the word Skittles printed in white across the front of the crumpled wrapper. I reach inside, absently wondering if the candies are still good. There are only a few pieces left and my fingers brush over every one before pulling a small spherical candy out. Holding the small green piece between my fingers, I examine it. It doesn't look stale.

I pop it into my mouth and bite down. With the flavor comes an overwhelming emotion, memories and realization filling my head and making me nearly choke on the candy. 

I see a boy, black hair covering part of his face as he twirls the tiny green Skittle between two painted fingers. Even from behind the curtain of hair, I recognize the vibrant gleam in his hazel eyes as he looks down, blushing.

But it can't be...

I recall a previous conversation, remembering his words exactly though they mix with others that seem more distant.

_"We sat at the same table in Chemistry..."_

Through my mind flashes another image like lightning. It's the skeleton boy, his features distinct and sharp under the fading paint and I can see clearly now who lies behind the mask.

I suck in a breath, my lungs not wanting to function properly at the sudden revelation. But I can't be sure; How do I know it's not just another screw up on my memories behalf? I have to know for sure, and there's only one way I can do that. I don't have time to think, my body acting on it's own accord as I jump up and storm across the hall. I don't stop to knock, throwing the door open and coming face to face with a surprised Gerard.

"Ever heard of knocking?" He says, shifting to a sitting position on his bed.

I grind my teeth together and force my next words past the lump in my throat, not nearly prepared for whatever kind of reaction I may get. "Tell me about Mikey Way." I command.

Gerard's face pales and his bottom lip begins to quiver only slightly. "What?" His voice is soft, like it's been used too much though he's barely spoken. 

"Who is Mikey Way?" I demand again. "I have to know."

Anger and what looks like defensiveness suddenly rushes into Gerard's features--  _my skeleton boy's features_ \-- and he glares at me. "Why are you asking about my brother?"


	31. Chapter 31

_My brother_...

The two words reverberate through my mind, bouncing around and making me feel light headed all of a sudden.

Mikey Way is Gerard's brother.

That's the connection, it  _has_  to be.

Gerard is the memory who was hiding behind Mikey Way.

"You're the one who saw me," I mumble. "In the hospital. You're the one that--"

My sentence isn't finished before Gerard is jumping off the mattress and taking an angry step toward me. His fists are clenched by his sides and his hazel eyes are boring into me, animosity seeping like venom into his words. "Why are you asking about him?" He demands again.

All at once, everything seems to make sense.

Mikey Way killed himself.

I think back to the article Ray and I found when searching for him, recalling the words almost exactly.

_Fourteen year old, Michael Way, was found this morning by his brother in their Belleville home. Way's older brother, fifteen, came home early from school to find his younger sibling hanging by noose in their shared room._

_Found this morning by his brother_...

I glance around the room, one half looking lived in while the second bed remained vacant. My mouth falls open and a small sound escapes me. "You found him," I realize. "You found him in here, didn't you?"

Tears sting in my eyes, sympathy for the older boy washing over me, but his expression is far from pitiful. He looks  _pissed_.

"Get out," He commands in a low voice. Fury flashes in his eyes and his teeth grind together, trying his best to contain himself. But I can't move; This isn't right. This isn't how this big revelation is supposed to be. I've finally found my skeleton boy, my angel, the one who has been singing to me. When I don't comply, Gerard's hand wraps around the closest object which happens to be book, paperback fortunately, and throws it at me. A bookmark flutters out and I raise both of my arms, ducking away as the novel collides with my shoulder. It's not that painful, really, but the hurt that surges through me makes my breathing shallow. "I said get the fuck out!" He screams.

I don't hesitate this time, spinning on my heels and rushing out of the room. I hear the door slam behind me, seeming to actually shake the house, and the sound just drives me farther. I have to get out. I don't stop at my bedroom or even downstairs. I ignore the curious, some surprised and concerned, gazes from the other residents I never had the chance to meet and race outside.

I don't stop there either.

I'm honestly not sure when I decide to stop, as it's more of my lungs choice than my conscious minds. Tears are staining my cheeks, my chest burning and threatening to just cave in completely. I wish it would; I wish my breathing could just stop. Darkness would take over and I could go back into the safe recesses of my mind instead of having to cope with Gerard's reaction.

He is my skeleton boy. Gerard is the one that visited me multiple times during my stay in the hospital. He's the one that sang to me.

I thought he would somehow be able to save me. I was literally on the verge of death when he stepped into my life and now here I was, running away from him. This isn't how it was supposed to be. None of this is right.

Then again, nothing in my life ever goes right.

I pushed everyone away, that is if I didn't kill them.

My dad. I murdered him in cold blood. They could call it self defense, but I knew the truth; I didn't regret it. I'd do it again if I had the chance. Did that make me a monster?

And my mom. It was my fault that she killed herself. I didn't care what the letter said, I was responsible. She ended her life so that I could live mine, but it wasn't worth it. My life wasn't worth hers. I might has well have pulled the trigger myself, tied the knot that hung her noose, however the hell she did it-- I was to blame.

And now Gerard. I couldn't keep my damn mouth shut, I couldn't hold back those stupid fucking memories. Bob was right; I shouldn't be there. Gerard's brother had killed himself and it was nothing but a constant reminder that I had failed while he hadn't.

I was alive and Mikey wasn't.

I look around with tear stained vision. I didn't know where I was, how I got here, and I didn't honestly care. Maybe that was the best way to run away; Without knowing what steps I took to get here, I can't go back. I'm lost in every sense.

The second that thought occurs to me, I feel a small rush of relief.

I'm lost. I have no idea where to go, and that leaves me with the only choice I've ever known how to make.

•••

Not an hour later, I've flagged down some homeless-looking man and convinced him to buy me alcohol at the nearest corner store. It takes most of the cash in my wallet just to cover the six pack of beer and, as he hands me the case, I offer him the rest of it's contents. It's not like I'll need money where I'm going.

I find a comfortable spot in an abandoned dog park, leaning up against the bark of a tree and welcoming the shade that covers me. It's warm for mid-April, the sun shining down on the budding grass and birds chirping up above. If I wasn't so consumed in my thoughts, I might think it's beautiful.

I crack open my first beer and take a swig. The warm liquid settles on my tongue in nauseating nostalgia. I haven't been drunk in nearly two years and the instant buzz that comes with that first drink has me itching for more. I want to feel it racing through my blood stream, tainting my sanity, and erasing every single memory I have.

I want it all to go away.

The sun starts fading by the time I down my third beer. I look around, my head starting to feel fuzzy, and realize that it's not getting dark because of the time. Clouds line the blue sky, casting grey shadows across the field and giving it a sense of sorrow.

By the time the fifth beer is gone, rain is covering my view. Creating a curtain of water, I stay mostly cloaked by the tree's sprouting leaves. But the inebriation is definitely kicking in by now and I can't sit still. My mind is wandering and it makes my body want to follow suit. So I crack open the last bottle, leaving the other empties piled at the base of the tree, and stumble to my feet. 

It's calming, really, having the rain pour down on me. The water mixes with the alcohol, diluting the flavor but I think my taste buds went numb a few beers back. I stand in the downpour for a long time, not moving, my arms spread wide and welcoming the drench.

Eventually, the rain calms to nothing but a light drizzle and my feet burn to move again. I push them forward only a step before I see in the distance what I've been looking for.

_A way out._

In my drunken haze, I stagger toward the polished metal railing. It glimmers in the meager amount of sun that's beginning to peak through the clouds. It's a sign. With everything going against me, the universe is finally giving me a break. _It's telling me to do it_.

My hands wrap around the rail loosely, not able to grasp it any tighter, and I begin to pull myself up. I see the flooded water of whatever river or lake this is below and it calls to me. It's beckoning me to join it and no part of my mind or body is denying.

However, before I can climb up onto the bridges ledge, a hand wraps around my arm and I'm spun around. Not the best idea when I'm intoxicated. My blurry vision is met with piercing hazel eyes, taunting and familiar. "What the hell are you doing?" Gerard demands.

I blink a few times to make sure he's really there before running the back of my arm across my face, sniffling. "Trying to kill myself," I mutter, dryly. "Now if you don't mind..."

I attempt to turn back to the awaiting water, but Gerard's grip stops me again. I sigh and he watches me with an exasperated expression. "Are you drunk?"

I simply nod and, despite the seriousness of this situation, a rather large yawn escapes my mouth.

"What are you thinking, Frank?" His voice is laced with worry, disappointment, and fear and he watches me closely, grabbing both of my arms so I can't move again.

I manage to shove him away from me and stagger back a step, mustering what I hope is anger. "Why do you care?" I ask, my speech slightly slurred. "You don't fucking care! You don't care about me. I'm an asshole."

Gerard shakes his head sadly and takes a cautious step forward, arms outstretched. "I  _do_  care," He says, his voice soft and choked. "I care so fucking much it hurts and it's killing me, Frank."

Now it's my turn to shake my head, a fervent action that only adds to the vertigo surrounding me. "Why?" I demand, trying to put sense to my thoughts. "Why would you care what happens? I'm a fuck-up, Gerard!"

Gerard sighs and his head drops forward. "We're not talking about this now."

"Yes we are!" I scream. Oh great, I'm an emotional drunk. Tears stream down my cheeks and I hope he can't see them in the rain.

"No," Gerard snaps. "We can talk about this when you're not drunk off your ass." He takes another step, grabbing me again. 'We're going home."

_Home_.

There's that word again.

But I don't have a home.

I shove Gerard away from me as hard as I can, only succeeding in knocking myself back on the pavement, bringing Gerard with me. We both stumble and somehow I end up cowering into Gerard's chest, shivering from the sudden cold while sobs shake my body. He wraps his arms around me, sighing into my hair. "I'm such a fuck-up," I repeat, this time my voice defeated and helpless.

Gerard just holds me closer and rocks gently back and forth. "You're not, Frankie," He mumbles. "It's okay. I'm right here."

I allow my eyes to drift closed and press myself into his chest, hearing his heart beat at an unsteady pace before eventually the sound takes over my consciousness and I fall asleep. 


	32. Chapter 32

My head is throbbing. It feels like someone beat my skull in with a baseball bat... Or I drank a six pack of beer and passed out on a sidewalk.

I groan and roll over, flinching at a slight pang in my side, and clench my hand into a fist around the...  _Sheets_? What the hell? Since when does pavement have linen?

I ignore the sharp pain reverberating through my head and force my eyes open to mere slits, taking in my surroundings. I'm in a bed, that much is clear, but the walls around me don't look familiar. The plain white walls are tainted yellow with what I assume is nicotine stains and a grey blanket covers me from my waist down. I tug the fabric closer, realizing my shirt is gone. My jeans stick uncomfortably to my skin under the blanket and I shift, causing more pain in my side. What happened to my side? How did I even get here?

My eyes scan the room before landing on the figure seated on the opposite bed. His legs are folded in front of him and he bites down on his lip, scrutinizing me, while his fingers tap anxiously against his sweat pants. His black hair is still damp from the rain, pushed back away from his face to reveal a contemplative expression. Deep in thought, he nearly glares at me.

I sigh, another involuntary groan leaving my lips. "What happened?" I wonder. My voice is hoarse and the words are practically croaked.

Gerard shifts and swallows visibly hard before replying. "You got hammered, tried to jump off of Fairemount Bridge, and then passed out on the sidewalk."

I move up on the bed and glance around the room again, this time recognizing it as Gerard's. The bed beneath me is his, as the other side of the room is desolate of any personal items. "I remember that," I moan and rub a hand across my tired eyes. "How did I get here?"

"I carried you," Gerard replies as if it's no big deal. My eyebrows shoot up in surprise and he shrugs, averting his gaze. "I wasn't going to just leave you there."

"Why not?" I ask. "I recall just earlier when you told me to get the fuck out. I was just listening."

Gerard rolls his eyes, exasperated, and looks back at me. "I was pissed," He admits. "I didn't mean you should go throw yourself off the closest bridge."

I look down at my lap, remembering just what I said to make him angry in the first place. I close my eyes and take a breath before glancing back up at him. "I'm sorry."

His fingers tap once again on his leg. His jaw clenches and he watches me, unreadable emotions playing across his delicate features. I decide I don't like him when he's angry; I'd rather see those pink lips turned up in a smile instead of warped into a snarl. It takes Gerard a long moment to compose himself, gathering his thoughts and wording his next question just right without freaking out this time. "What do you know about my brother?"

I huff out a breath of air and contemplate what I should tell him before deciding I should keep as close to the truth as possible without sounding like an escaped mental patient. "I remember him from school."

One corner of Gerard's mouth raises in a sad smile and he nods. "You two were in the same grade," He agrees. "After the incident, I fell behind. Ended up failing for the year." So that's how Gerard is eighteen and still a Junior. That's why he's in my Chemistry class.

"Gerard?" I ask hesitantly.

He doesn't move at first, not acknowledging me though I know he heard my voice, so I just wait. A second later, he looks up at me. "Hmm?"

My mouth moves to form the words I want so badly to ask, but my brain has different plans and I end up asking, "Where's my shirt?"

Gerard's gaze shifts to my bare chest before darting away and brushing some hair forward into his face. "It was soaked," He mutters. "I had to take it off before you froze to death."

I nod quietly though he isn't looking at me. He's studying the fabric of the bed he sits on, tracing the light patterns with the tip of his index finger. I don't realize he's crying until a single tear falls onto his hand. His movements don't cease, though, just twirling around over the same pattern. "I miss him so much." His voice cracks near the middle, broken with a shaking sob, before he wipes his hand across his eyes. Quietly cursing himself, he tries to suck the tears back in, quiet his cries, but he can't and I lean forward. I reach out a shaky hand, placing it on his knee and causing him to look up at me. His hazel eyes are dull, almost void of the brilliant color I've grown used to seeing, and his lids are red and puffy. Another tear falls silently and he smiles sadly. "You remind me of him, you know," He tells me. And then it occurs to me, the one thing I've known this whole time but never understood.

"Is that why Bob said he didn't want me here?" I ask softly. 

Gerard squints at me and I realize this is probably the first he's heard about Bob's fear of what my presence here may bring. But he just shrugs and hunches his shoulders forward. "Bob's just looking out for me," He says. "He's probably scared that you being here will bring back memories of Mikey. Things that depressed me three years ago."

Three years ago-- When Mikey died and, I only realize now what he had said previously, how long insomnia has been tormenting Gerard.

I shift closer to the edge of the bed, my voice shaking when I finally asks the question that has been pegging me. "Gerard," I say, leaning into the small space that separates the two beds and swallowing hard. "Why did you pull me off of that bridge? Why didn't you let me jump?"

Gerard searches my eyes and bites the inside of his lip, tears building up once again. "Because I care about you, Frank." He breathes out heavily and averts his gaze, looking to his lap instead. 'I've had a crush on you since ninth grade but--" He pauses, shrugging. "You were too wrapped up in the party scene. You didn't even know my name. And then one day you came back to school as a complete loner. I wanted so badly to talk to you but that was just after--" His words are cut off again. His body is shaking and more silent tears are spilling over. "Just after Mikey died and I was so scared." He looks up at me suddenly, his eyes pleading and desperate. "I was so fucking scared to get close to anyone, so I sat there in my depression and self-pity and I left you alone. But then I started to get better. Three years had passed. I came to terms with the fact that Mikey wasn't coming back and I decided I was going to ask you out. Right after the pep rally."

His gaze drops again and I realize the end of that story; I tried to kill myself during that assembly. Gerard didn't talk to me because he never got the chance. That was the day that I went to the hospital, that I was induced into a coma. That was the first time that he sang to me and my first time seeing the skeleton boy.

"You visited me," I say. "While I was in a coma."

Gerard nods slightly, still not looking at me.

"I remember."

That makes him glance up, his eyes once again gleaming with those beautiful specks of green and gold. I smile softly. "You sang to me."

One corner of Gerard's mouth raises, too. "Every day."

"I saw you, too." Oh shit, I didn't mean to say that. But the words are out now and there's no taking them back, so I avert my eyes and twist my hands together, hurrying to explain. "While I was asleep. I saw this skeleton boy who talked to me, who showed me things." I bite down gently on my lip, mentally kicking myself for how stupid I sound, and shrug limply. "I didn't realize it at first, but he was you."

I see when Gerard's hand, unsteady, comes close to mine. He hesitantly wraps his fingers around mine, intertwining them, and making me look up to meet his gaze. He swallows and smiles again, that same breathtaking smile, but just as fast his touch is gone and so is the expression. His lips press into a flat line and he looks down. "I can't--" He pauses and breathes in slowly through his nose. "I can't get close to you, Frank. Not unless you can promise me that I'll never lose you." He looks up and sniffles. "Not like I lost Mikey. I can't go through that again."

But even as he speaks those words, his hand finds mine again. We both know by now that we're far too close already; There's no going back and there's no stopping it.

So I simply thread my fingers through his and tug on them, pulling him off of the bed across from me and down onto his own mattress. "Will you sing me to sleep?" I ask.

Gerard smiles and nods, crawling over me to lay down. His chest presses against my bare back, the fabric of his shirt tickling and making me shiver along with the breath that hits my ear when he exhales. With one arm wrapped around my waist, Gerard sighs before his familiar voice echoes through my ears, even more beautiful in person, more chills running down my spine. And for the first time in a long time, I fall asleep honestly happy.


	33. The End...

"Do you believe in fate?" I play with Gerard's fingers absently, sliding my own along them before resting my palm against his and squeezing. In the passing three weeks since the incident at the bridge, we haven't done much else than this. I don't think this feeling will ever go away; The butterflies in my stomach when he looks at me, the serenity that washes over me when he sings, the electrifying shock when his skin touches mine. It's indescribable-- Warm and fuzzy, but hot and demanding at the same time. Cool and relaxing, but freezing and nerve racking. I can only imagine what sparks will fly when he decides to kiss me; Hesitation has hindered our relationship from going that far, as Gerard is still weary to get too close. Which is why I haven't told him yet that I think I lo--

Gerard shrugs, interrupting my train of thought, his body moving mine with the gesture. His back is against the wall, his legs open to allow room for me to sit between them, facing away from him and resting my head on his chest. "No," He replies, finally. "I don't like the thought of not being able to decide my own future." He sighs and buries his head in my hair. I imagine him closing his eyes, breathing in the scent of me. "I think it's easier this way," He mumbles. "I can't believe that Mikey killed himself because it was his destiny or something. They told me he was in a better place now, but it's all shit. He was supposed to grow up." Gerard laughs once without humor and I can feel his body tensing under mine. I stroke my hands over his, willing him to relax. It takes a moment, but slowly he melts back, wrapping both of his arms around my waist. "We were gonna start a band," He continues, his voice nostalgic and distant. "Travel the world. If it was his fate to kill himself, then the universe can go fuck itself because I'm not buying it."

We fall into silence once more and I bite down on my lip before Gerard nudges me. "Why do you ask?"

I shrug, trying to put it off as nothing, but Gerard can tell I've put some thought into this and straightens up. This, in turn, causes me to shift. He leans down, catching my eyes and raising a brow. I sigh and look down at the sheets beneath us before daring to meet his gaze again. "I don't know," I sigh. "I just... With everything that's happened, it's hard not to believe at least a little." Gerard remains quiet and I rush on, feeling the need to explain myself. "I tried to kill myself," I say bluntly. "Twice. And yet somehow, both times I failed. I killed my own dad and my mom pushed me away before committing suicide. If that hadn't happened, I wouldn't be here right now. So is that just some weird luck or is there really some higher power that's deciding what our fate is before we even have it planned ourselves?"

Gerard is quiet for a long time, thinking it over as he watches the blanket. Eventually, he shakes his head. "I don't know," He admits, finally raising his eyes to level them with mine. "But I know that I wouldn't change anything because every single thing that happened landed both of us right here." The pad of his thumb grazes over my knuckles and he laughs. "So maybe it was luck or maybe it was fate, but I don't really care. All that matters is right now." He takes a deep breath and lets it out, averting his gaze and biting down on his lip. "After Mikey died, I felt like part of me was dead, too. He was my little brother, he was my best friend, and suddenly he was just gone." His eyebrows crease together, his voice staring to shake. "Seeing him like that, it was like my lungs just collapsed. I couldn't breathe. It felt like I was dying." Gerard shrugs. "That was the first time I drew Mother War. She was my way of coping with everything. She was the mother I never had. She was the only thing I had and she made me feel like I could breathe again." 

It made so much sense. The gas mask, the torn Victorian era gown; Mother War was everything that Gerard needed at the time. She was elegant and beautiful, sturdy but obviously gone through some tough times, and yet she was still strong. She was his anchor.

I look up and realize that Gerard is watching me again. "I don't really draw her much anymore," He tells me softly and my brows crease slightly.

"Why?"

"Because," He says, smiling a little. "I don't need to. I can breathe without her now." His arms tighten around my waist and he plants a soft kiss to my temple. "I have something better. I have  _you_."

I search his hazel eyes, seeing once again the vibrant glint of gold, brown, and green. I don't think, I can't, because I know that what I'm about to do could get me shoved off the bed and another book thrown at me. But I lean in, capturing his pink lips with mine. It feels like heat rolling through my veins, sparks of electricity being pulled with the current, and the shock makes me pull back an inch. "I think I love you, Gerard."

Gerard just grins down at me, making my heart skip a beat. "Good," He says.  _Well that wasn't exactly the response I was hoping for._..

But before I have the chance to even be disappointed, his lips are back on mine, mumbling the words directly against my skin. "Because I think I love you, too."

**_A/N: Hang on.... I think we all need a moment to collect ourselves... Group breathing seems to be in order. *Deep breathes. In. Out* Good. So yes, this is it; This is the end of Sing Me To Sleep. Many of you have been asking for a sequel but, unfortunately, one is not in order._ **   
**_HOWEVER I have something I think you guys might enjoy-- Sing Me To Sleep Prompts. Basically, I will take ideas for a one shot based on this AU and I will write it. Whether it's Frank and Gerard on Christmas thirty years from now, tell me and I will create it or Gerard and Mikey before Frank came into the story. It's all up to you guys because none of this would have been remotely possible without your encouragement and support. I love seeing the comments you leave and they honestly make my day brighter._ **   
**_Wattpad is the ONLY site I am taking requests on for Sing Me To Sleep Prompts-- Sorry to my mcrfanfic  and AO3 fans. I still love you, I just don't want to be too overwhelmed and Wattpad is still my main writing site. You have no idea how much you make me smile and it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside to know that you enjoy something I created. So thank you._ **   
**_And it is with that, that I leave this, my final update on Sing Me To Sleep, for good. I bid you adieu and I look forward to Sing Me To Sleep Prompts <3_ **   
**_-MyChemicalRachel_ **


	34. Through The Glass

I said in the last chapter that I wouldn't be making a sequel, but I came up with the idea and I decided to post it. It's called Through The Glass and you can find it here:  [Through The Glass](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1476976/chapters/3114664)


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